


Something Tells Me (I Could Fall In Love With You)

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Baby Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Bad Parenting, Cancer, Depressed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Endgame Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, First Meetings, Geralt z Rivii and Yennefer z Vengerbergu are Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parents, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Mental Health Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion's Parents Being Assholes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Childhood Neglect, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 187,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23913514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Struggling with the fallout of a bad break-up, Geralt is eventually lured out into the world again by Eskel, insistent that a house party hosted by Valdo Marx will help him shrug off whatever shadows have been stalking around his brain and holding him down for the past few weeks.Fleeing the noise and chaos by turning to the roof of the building, Geralt meets a man in a similar situation to his own: fresh out of a relationship and wanting to be anywhere else but at Valdo Marx's party.--Modern!Geraskier (Summary Ammended)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Comments: 706
Kudos: 661





	1. Chapter 1

In hindsight, he should have just slammed the door on Eskel’s face.

As soon as he heard the soft padding of footfalls in the hall outside, the gentle rap of his brother’s knuckles against the doorframe, he _knew_ that there was going to be trouble. Eskel only ever came to his room like this whenever he wanted something.

The second Geralt begrudgingly left his desk and opened the door, the second he saw Eskel’s glinting eyes and a small curling smile along his lip, he knew he had made the first mistake.

Eskel is Eskel, and that’s the damn problem. Geralt physically cannot say no to him. And the other man milks it for all it’s worth.

“Just for an hour,” Eskel says a bit too happily as they pull up outside the apartment block. It’s a couple of stories high, but one of the smallest complexes lining the busy street. Cars are parked along the stretch of road, and Geralt spots people dressed in leather and sequins stepping out of their cars. Eskel pats a hand on to his shoulder. “If you want to leave after that, that’s cool.”

Geralt frowns. “How will you get home?”

“I won’t be coming home with you,” Eskel almost winks, but a _look_ from Geralt has him laughing instead. “Coën is here. We’re going to go somewhere else after this party eventually gets shut down.”

Stepping out of Geralt’s car, both of them try to hide a shudder at the bitterly cold breeze that blows through the streets. Geralt stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “So why am I even here?” he grumbles. “Why didn’t Coën bring you in the first place?”

“Because you need to get out into the outside world,” Eskel says simply. “And I just won a bet with Lambert by actually getting you a mile away from the flat.”

He could just leave the bastard here. Something has his feet rooted to the ground. His keys are still palmed in his hand. God, he could leave. Looking up at the apartment block, his stomach churns at the thought of going inside. The thump of music or whatever it is that’s being blasted out of the top floor is something that grates his ears. He can already smell the alcohol and the sweat from too many people being crammed into a small space.

Eskel’s expression changes. “If you wanna go back home, then that’s alright.” He catches the eye of someone standing at the door to the block. He gives them a small wave. When he turns back to Geralt, he lowers his head. “I just thought that after Yen, you might want to-”

Geralt swallows. A lump tries to claw up and stick in his throat. “No, it’s okay. I’ll stay for an hour.” And it’s a struggle to get the words out. He’s tired. His muscles and joints groan when he pushes away from the car, slowly following Eskel into the block.

Even his bones are tired. _Tired_ doesn’t even seem like the right word for it. He’s been sleeping. Both Eskel and Lambert leave him alone, for the most part. But there were a few days where he wakes up to find one of them beside his bed, poking his face, making sure that he was still alive.

And he supposes that Eskel has a point. He’s only left their apartment for grocery runs; when he feels the walls starting to close in on him, and everything he sees reminds him of her, and he just needs to put as much distance between himself and everything else.

A few people call out to Eskel as they go inside and climb higher up the apartment block. Whoever’s party it is obviously isn’t confined to one apartment. Or even one floor. Geralt eyes a few small crowds of people sitting on staircases and leaning against walls of every floor they pass.

Eskel takes an offered cigarette off of one man. “You don’t even smoke,” Geralt arches an eyebrow.

“Here you go then,” Eskel holds it out to him. “Happy Birthday. Don’t say I didn’t get you anything.”

It’s nowhere near his birthday yet. He thinks. Geralt fishes his phone out of his pocket. The fact that he has to check what the date is just says it all really. And if Eskel sees it out of the corner of his eye, he doesn’t say anything.

Geralt doesn’t do parties. He doesn’t do quite a lot of things; but being in an enclosed space with a lot of people, many of them being in varying stages of drunkenness and consciousness, it just isn’t him. Even the thought of it almost sends him back down the stairs and back into his car and back to his apartment.

Eskel glances over his shoulder as they reach the top floor. “I have a ride with Coën,” he says again. It’s a bit harder to hear him, with the thumping of music only louder now. Eskel clasps a hand on to his shoulder and speaks into his ear. “You can leave whenever you want.”

He lasts almost ten minutes. It’s nothing in particular but _everything_. He doesn’t even know whose party it’s meant to be; but he does spot a young man dressed in nice clothes surrounded by a pack of other similarly dressed people.

Geralt’s eyes narrow. Valdo Marx. Why in the name of God would Eskel want to come to a party hosted by _Valdo Marx_ of all people? That is until he spots a well-kept bar to one side of the apartment and, fair enough, Eskel is already leaned against it with Coën, heads both thrown back in laughter.

Valdo’s apartment is everything he expected from the man. It’s draped in money, with marble finishes on the tables and plush, leather armchairs scattered throughout the rooms. The entire space seems like a never-ending maze, something that Geralt will get lost in as he wanders through a few rooms. There’s a good amount of people to be found wherever he goes, most of them gathered in tight groups. The smell of cigarette smoke and week and spilled spirits coat the roof of his mouth, and he almost gags with it.

* * *

The door to the roof isn’t locked. Geralt sighs in relief when it gives way, leading out on to a mostly emptied space. There are a few plastic lawn chairs scattered around, mostly encircling drums were fires would be left. Glass bottles of half-drunk beer and whiskey lie scattered around too. People must have been here recently, but flooded back into the apartment block when the wind got too much. Geralt stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

The door shuts behind him. Geralt pulls out his phone. It’s not even midnight yet. It’s not even fifteen minutes since he’s parked his car in the street below. His lockscreen stares back up at him; an old picture of Roach when she was still a puppy. She’s grown into her paws and ears. The thought of her being at the apartment, alone, makes his chest tight.

He slips the phone back into his jacket and fishes out a packet of cigarettes. He still has the free one he got from Eskel. Catching it between his lips, he takes out his lighter and sparks it.

The apartment block is in a quiet neighbourhood, but only a few miles away is the main city. Lights from the bars and the hotels gather in its centre. This stretch of road is dark, with the only lights coming from street lamps. Most of the other apartment blocks nearby are dark. Geralt spots a couple of windows that light up – probably complaints being made about the noise. With the nice cobbled streets and primly kept green spaces in front of every building, he can only assume this is where Posada’s young families live.

He can’t help but feel sorry for them. Having Valdo Marx live anywhere in your vicinity would be enough for anyone.

Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of a bottle smashing. “God-fucking- _dammit_ ,” someone curses. He barely hears it over the sound of a passing breeze, but Geralt cranes his neck around and spots a figure leaning against the wall of the roof.

He flips the packet of cigarettes in his hand. A nervous tick he’s never quite managed to shake. Geralt clears his throat.

The figure whips their head around. Even in the dim lighting, Geralt can make out a young man with bright blue eyes, slightly fogged over with what he presumes was the drink he had. The man straightens slightly. “What are you doing out here?”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. Words clamber up his throat. “Parties aren’t my thing,” he shrugs a shoulder, tilting his head to look at the man. He’s as well dressed as any of the rest of them; brown boots, jeans, a tee and opened bomber jacket. And even though Geralt is wearing pretty much the same thing, they couldn’t look more different. He lifts his chin. “What are _you_ doing out here?” he eyes the ledge of the roof. The wall is high enough that no one could stumble over it. It reaches the man’s waist. But with how much he’s leaning on it, Geralt has to wonder why he hasn’t tumbled over already.

The man lets out a long sigh. “I wanted to have my mental breakdown in peace,” he says simply before turning back to the cityscape.

Geralt huffs a small laugh. He wanders over to the man, hands fidgeting in his pockets. He pulls out his packet of cigarettes, holding it out to the man when he’s close enough. “Want one?”

The man regards the box for a moment before nodding. “Sure, why not. Thanks.”

Geralt passes him a lighter.

A silence settles over them; one broken by the hum of music from downstairs, and the echoes of people laughing and calling out to each other in the streets. But neither of them says anything for a while. The man lights the cigarette and sets it between his lips. He holds out Geralt’s lighter. “Cheers,” the man lets out a puff of smoke. “I normally don’t. It ruins the voice. But _Gods_ did I need this.”

He should ask. Something inside his brain compels him to. It would be the right thing to do. The _normal_ thing to do. Geralt turns his back on the city and leans against the wall. “You said something about a breakdown?” he folds his arms over his chest.

The man laughs – it’s a light, breathless thing. But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Geralt has to look at the man for a moment. He swears he can see tears brimming his eyes. “Hmm,” the man says, taking a long drag from the cigarette. “You know when shit just starts snowballing and you feel like it’s not going to stop?”

Geralt squares his jaw. He nods.

The man offers a small thumbs-up. “Well I guess this is where I get smothered, I guess.”

And Geralt feels that in his soul. One day, a few months ago, he felt like someone picked him up and flung him off of a cliff. The fall down the proverbial mountain was a long one. Months were lost to Geralt’s sleep schedule going out the window. He didn’t know what day it was for the most part. Time just passed him without even so much as glancing in his direction, and then suddenly, months had gone by. It took almost three weeks for Eskel and Lambert to stop skirting around him, like he’d collapse or break if either of them moved too quickly or spoke too loudly. Gods, break-ups were difficult, but he wasn’t _dying_.

Geralt hums. “So whatever happened inside was your breaking point?”

“Got broken up with,” the man lets out with a plume of smoke. “At my own boyfriend’s party. That’s the most recent thing, I guess. Unless someone I know has died or something and no one is telling me.”

Geralt blinks at him. It takes his brain a while to make the connection. “You’re Valdo Marx’s boyfriend.” It doesn’t even come out as a question. But Geralt just stares at the side of the man’s face. He looked familiar, but he’s only ever seen Marx in passing. He never gave a shit as to which unfortunate soul had to be in the same earshot as him, let alone the same bed. The thought of it alone makes Geralt’s heart actually ache for the other man.

The man pulls at the last of the cigarette. “Correction; I am Valdo Marx’s _ex_ -boyfriend. Apparently.” He stubs out the cigarette nub against the roof’s wall. Once it’s flicked to the side, the man holds out his hand. “Julian Pankratz. Or Jaskier. Actually, just Jaskier. I prefer Jaskier.”

Geralt looks down at the hand. “Geralt,” he replies, tentatively shaking the offered hand.

When they part, Jaskier folds his arms tightly over his chest and leans a bit more weight against the roof’s railing. The quiet settles over them again. It’s not one that needs filling. There’s a faint hum of conversation and laughter below them, occasionally drowned out by music. In the streets, people flood out of the apartment block and into their cars, ready to head to the main city.

But the roof feels so disconnected from all of that.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Jaskier eventually says. His voice has changed. It’s deeper now, more gravelly. “ _That_ being what made me lose it. I mean, I was going to be the one to break up with him. Gods alive, the man is a dickhead.”

A laugh wrings its way out of Geralt’s throat.

“Don’t even know why I stayed with him, you know.” Jaskier sighs. “But it’s always the littlest things that push you over.”

Geralt hums. “I almost threw my roommate’s PS4 out of the window just because he forgot to buy bread, after he promised me he would.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I know what you mean by _little things_.”

At that, Jaskier laughs. It’s better than the one he did before. Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye as a smile wrinkles his eyes. “Oh, that’s it alright,” he wheezes. When he looks over to Geralt, he blinks at just how blue Jaskier’s eyes look – even with the faint lighting making its way to the roof. “Did you happen to see Valdo before you fled up here?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Don’t know,” Geralt lifts a shoulder, “didn’t pay him much mind.”

“I chucked a glass of red wine at him before coming up here,” Jaskier hums a content sort of sound. “I wondered if he changed into something else.”

Geralt turns his head, hiding his laugh into the shadows. It’s the most that’s left him since, well, he isn’t sure. The chilly night winds whipping over the roof don’t bother him at all as he relaxes back into the wall, letting the edge of it dig into the small of his back.

The man scrubs his face. “I’m going to have to go back down there to get out of this fucking building,” he groans into his hands. He curses quietly under his breath as he slips his phone out of his back pocket.

Geralt eyes the man’s phone. “Where do you live?” he asks, spotting the man bring up the Uber app. “I could give you a ride home. If you needed one.”

Jaskier’s thumb pauses over his phone’s screen. His mouth opens and closes for a moment before he clears his throat. “Yeah? Yeah, that’d be...that’d be great. Thank you.”

* * *

He hasn’t even been at the party for thirty minutes. Geralt sent a message to Eskel before leaving, where he managed to catch a glimpse of the time. Pulling away from the apartment block, Geralt’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. The fact that Eskel managed to get him out of their apartment would be enough of a victory to keep him off Geralt’s back for a few days. Hopefully, a few weeks.

His passenger buries his nose into his phone, thumbs a blur over the screen as he taps out an essay of a message to send to someone. Valdo, Geralt assumes. He chews the inside of his cheek. Still playing in his mind is the image of them being together. He just couldn’t see it. Valdo is an acquired taste, to say the least; only ever having people like him trailing after him like shadows. And Geralt’s passenger just...doesn’t seem like a _Valdo_ Marx-type.

Scents wisp underneath his nose. A nice-smelling aftershave and soap and hair product. Things that smell so foreign to him but he can’t help but take in deep lungfuls of.

They manage to clear a few streets and stoplights in silence. Once whatever it is Jaskier wants to send Valdo is sent, he shoves his phone into his jacket pocket and looks out his window. His apartment is on the other side of the city. Driving through the main city means that he’ll get Jaskier home quicker, but the man seems intent on making Geralt take winding streets around the worst lanes hit by taxis and Ubers on their way to clubs and bars.

“So, if you hate Valdo so much, why were you at the party?” Jaskier sits slightly against the car door, angling his body over towards Geralt. “I don’t think I’ve ever met you before.”

“My roommate wanted to go,” Geralt answers simply, keeping his eyes on the road.

Jaskier hums. “You don’t seem like the type of people Valdo would have around his place.”

“Thank you,” Geralt replies.

Even in the corner of his eye, he can see how the man’s face lights up in a smile. “You’re welcome,” he laughs, angling his head to look out the window again. After a moment, Jaskier speaks again. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

Geralt arches an eyebrow.

“There’s a pizza place not far from my apartment,” Jaskier lifts a shoulder, “if you’re hungry, we could go.”

“It’s almost eleven.”

It doesn’t dissuade the man. He keeps looking to the side of Geralt’s face, waiting for an answer that’s swirling around his throat. Pizza sounds good. In the weeks of his self-imposed exile to his apartment, he’s been living on whatever it is that he can find and cook easily. It took weeks, and the combined effort of Lambert and Eskel, and a small, thinly-veiled threat from Vesemir, to get some proper food into him.

When he glances over to Jaskier, he sees the other man waiting on a reply. “Sure,” he says, looking back at the road.

Morelli’s is tucked away, almost entirely hidden into a small alley street. There’s some outside seating, sheltered by an awning, but most of the chairs are stacked on their tables. Jaskier leads him inside. The instant hit of dough and garlic coils around him. His stomach rumbles.

Whether or not the food is for him or Jaskier, he isn’t sure. But he blinks as a waitress comes over, regards them both, and wordlessly leads them over to a small booth to the corner of the restaurant. Jaskier puts an order in for two pizzas, garlic bread, fries, and a glass of wine, because _I just got dumped at my own boyfriend’s birthday party, that **I** organised for him. _

When the waitress leaves, Geralt arches an eyebrow. “You threw Valdo that party?”

Jaskier hums, setting his chin on a fist. “Makes the whole thing even worse, doesn’t it?” he waves his free hand. “It’s fine. I’ve had my cry. And I got a new friend out of it!”

Geralt blinks. “Bold of you to assume that I’m your friend,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

It doesn’t throw the other man at all. If anything, a slow small smile curls along his lips. “What can I do to change that?”

Their food is placed in front of them before he can answer. And he doesn’t know who to thanks – the server, God – because nothing would have come out of his mouth. Jaskier takes a measured sip of wine. There are a couple of people around in neighbouring booths and tables. A pleasant hum of conversation sits in the air. It’s enough to keep Geralt’s head busy. If there’s sound, he doesn’t have to think.

He learns quickly that Jaskier likes to talk – a lot. It takes him longer to finish his food. He spends most of his time picking at it, tearing strips of bread or fishing for a few fries. He talks a lot but says nothing. Geralt eats and listens to him talk about college – he’s studying music in Oxenfurt. That’s something that makes Geralt arch an eyebrow. Oxenfurt isn’t an easy place to get into. Jaskier flashes him a toothy smile. “I’m not just all looks, you know,” he says, placing a finger on his temple.

Jaskier swallows the last of his wine. “What about you?” he says, setting his glass down.

“What about me?” Geralt frowns.

“Conversations work by having both parties contribute,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the two of them. “And I’ve contributed quite a lot. So, what about you?”

Geralt chews the inside of his cheek. His fingers drum against the table. “I, uh.” The words stick again. They’re in there, somewhere. But they can only clamber up so high before his throat threatens to close in on itself. His frown only deepens as he stares at the linen tablecloth.

Jaskier lifts his chin. “You don’t have to tell me your darkest secrets,” he laughs lightly, but it’s gone as soon as it gets out. “Just...where are you from?”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “I’m living in Kaedwen,” he says after a time.

Jaskier tilts his head. “Have you lived there long?”

“All my life.” Geralt stares down at their empty plates. “I live with two guys in an apartment.”

Jaskier offers a small smile. “Were they at the party?”

“Eskel was,” Geralt replies, “he’s going to be there until the whole bar is drained.”

Jaskier laughs. It’s light and airy. “Cheers to that,” he lifts his empty glass. “If there’s one thing Valdo loves more than himself it’s his imported booze.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that a couple of people are gathering their things to leave. Geralt throws a quick glance down at his phone. “It’s getting late,” he says. There’s a soft blush scattered across Jaskier’s cheeks. It’s nothing too bad; when the man stands, he’s able to stand on his own two feet and navigate the maze of tables and chairs just fine.

Jaskier has his wallet out for the waitress before Geralt can actually process what’s going on. His mouth opens to protest but Jaskier flashes him a small smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, handing over a few bills. Even through the dim lighting of the restaurant, Geralt sees Jaskier _wink_ at him. “You can get the next one.”

And the words stalk around his brain on the short walk back to his car. Jaskier natters on about something or other – recommendations for restaurants around the area. “But I haven’t been to Kaedwen. You’ll have to show me around some time.”

And if Geralt’s car keys almost slip out of his trembling hand, he doesn’t say anything. His radio blinks to life.

Jaskier presses his head back into the headrest, breathing out a long sigh. “You know, as far as nights go, this wasn’t the worst.”

Geralt snorts. “Do you often rate breakups?”

Jaskier cocks his head, a furrow settling on to his brow. “No, not really.”

They pull up just outside Jaskier’s building. The street is a long row of old brick houses, intricate designs carved into their faces. There’s a large flight of stairs running up to the door, the railing of which has been coiled with fairy lights. It’s one of the nicer areas of the city. The streets are quiet and lined with old, wrought-iron street lamps that cast an orange glow on to the cobblestones.

Neither of them says anything. A silence sits between them, but Geralt doesn’t feel that it needs to be filled. “Thank you,” he says. His voice is different from before. Slightly deeper, raspier. When Geralt looks at him, even through the faded light, the man’s face looks so different from before. Something has settled over him.

Geralt draws in a breath. “You’re welcome,” he rumbles.

And Jaskier sniffs. “It’s been a while since, um, since anyone’s been...It’s been a while since anyone has done something kind for me.”

It’s so quiet. Geralt doesn’t even want to breathe, just in case the sound of it shatters the silence. But Jaskier sniffs again, lifting the back of his hand to his nose. He turns his head away just enough that Geralt can’t see, but he’s sure that the man is fighting back tears. And it only curls Geralt’s stomach tighter on itself.

“You’re kind.” Jaskier blinks, the last of unshed tears disappearing back into him. He gestures vaguely to Geralt’s body. “You know, despite whatever vibe you’re trying to put out into the world.”

Before he really knows what’s happening, soft lips are pressed against his. Heat blooms on the side of his face as Jaskier cups his cheek, angling his head slightly so that their noses brush.

At the first slide of a tongue against the seam of his mouth, Geralt pulls away.

But Jaskier is the first to speak. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he breathes, almost flinging himself back into his own seat. “ _Fuck_. I, I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, just...” Warmth courses through his veins, pooling in his core. It’s not the worst feeling in the world. “You literally just got out of a relationship and, so did I, and you’re drunk—well, you’ve _been_ drinking at least.” Geralt sucks in a tight breath. “I. Not like this.”

Jaskier’s lips press into a thin line, but he nods. “Yeah, that’s. That’s okay. Sorry,” he stumbles, reaching for the door handle. “Thanks for, um, thanks for driving me home.”

Geralt watches him leave. It takes too much will on his end to force his hands to take the steering wheel, to force them to stay there.

“Thanks,” Jaskier says, rubbing the back of his neck.

When the man shuts the car door, when he climbs up the stairs to his building and disappears inside, Geralt breathes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quick note* I am INFAMOUS for starting a multi-chapter fic and not finishing them, but I'm making an active effort to finish this one. (>.> <.<). Someone please hold me to this. Please.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes to the sound of low snarling.

And swearing.

“Alright, you damn mutt,” Lambert’s familiar voice sounds, “I’m just checking on him. No need to be like that.”

Geralt lifts his head, squinting at the door. Half of Lambert’s body is in the room, but he’s pinned in place by a retriever’s stare and curled lip. Geralt nudges the dog with his foot. The growling stops.

Lambert lets out a small breath. “How was last night?”

Memories come back to him like afterimages; barely formed, blurring around the edges, but his lips tingle and his heart clenches. He can remember Jaskier’s face; a smile that crinkled his eyes, the light wine-blush that coloured the bridge of his nose, how blue his eyes were—

 _What the fuck_ , he sighs, throwing an arm over his face.

Lambert snorts. “The party was that bad?”

“It was loud,” Geralt grumbles. The mattress shifts. He lifts his arm just in time to see Roach crawling up towards him, flopping down against his side and settling her chin on his chest. He scratches behind her ears with his free hand. “Turned out to be Valdo Marx’s birthday party.”

Lambert’s nose wrinkles. “Gross.”

Geralt hums. “Exactly.”

Roach sighs, eyelids slipping shut as his fingers bury into her fur.

“I’m going to work,” Lambert says, jutting his thumb down the hall, “you’ve got the flat to yourself.” It’s only then does Geralt look at the man. He’s dressed in his usual tee and jeans – something that Vesemir would have murdered him for, but the man doesn’t own the garage anymore – an invitation for Lambert to do and wear whatever he likes.

A soft frown wrinkles Geralt’s brow. “Eskel didn’t come home?”

“He either crashed at Coën’s place or he’s face-down in a gutter somewhere,” Lambert shrugs, “either way, you have a free apartment. Go nuts.”

The sound of the apartment door clicking ripples through each room. Geralt sighs. Roach slips back into sleep, soft snores leaving the dog’s nose. Her hind leg twitches as a dream visits her. Geralt scratches the crown of her head.

In past months, he probably would have followed her. He would have buried himself underneath his sheets and blankets and stayed in bed until someone came home to drag him out. But the longer he lies there, pinned by his dog’s warm sleeping form, left to stare at the cracked, mottled plaster of the ceiling, he finds that sleep isn’t visiting him. On his worse days, hours could slip by without him knowing. His windows, ones that look out on to a street and small park, were the only clues to him that time was passing.

He pats Roach’s back. “Come on,” he sighs, “we’ll make something of today, will we?”

Even if it’s only moving to the living room, that’s enough of a victory for the day. Roach whines as he slips out of bed, mourning the loss of her pillow.

He grabs some loose sweatpants and a shirt and heads for the bathroom. For being shared by three grown men, it’s kept mostly clean. But he knows deep down that if Vesemir visited one day, and he saw a single towel on the floor, they wouldn’t hear the end of it. He was kind enough to leave them this apartment when he moved. _I won’t have any use for it_ , he shrugged. And he visits often enough for them to know when to pull out the sofabed and add another portion for dinner.

With no Eskel or Lambert, the flat is deafeningly quiet. There’s a pattering of nails against the floor. Roach keeps to his heels, following him into every room he shuffles into. Even when he gets to the bathroom, wincing at the harsh fluorescent light that flickers on, Roach sits by the door. He arches an eyebrow at the dog. “You’re my designated babysitter for today, are you?”

Big brown eyes blink back at him, head slightly cocked.

 _Yes_.

* * *

Roach’s head snaps up at the sound of keys entering a lock. The only tell he has that someone’s home, or someone is breaking in, is the fact that the retriever scrambles from the couch and runs to the door. Geralt takes out an earbud.

“Alright, you mongrel!” Eskel’s frustrated groan rings up through the hall. “This was my home long before you came along!”

A smile lifts the corner of Geralt’s chin. He whistles sharply. A pattering of nails sounds before the dog rushes back into the couch. When Eskel appears, Geralt tries to swallow a laugh at his stormy expression. “What you see in that dog, Geralt, I have no idea.”

He shrugs. “She’s technically your dog too.”

“She stopped being my dog a long time ago.”

“She loves you, really.”

“She peed on my favourite shirt, Geralt!”

“She was a puppy.”

Glancing up from his laptop, Geralt sees the other man put a collection of bags down on to the kitchen island. “You didn’t come home last night,” he says after a while, putting his earbuds away.

Eskel’s laugh is sharp. “Yeah, I crashed at Coën’s. Sorry I didn’t text you.” At the mention of texting, the other man sends a quick glance Geralt’s way; a small arch to his eyebrow. “What was that you sent me about giving someone a ride home?”

“Just someone I met on the roof.” Eskel looks at him like that isn’t enough. Geralt loses a small sigh through his nose. “His name’s Jaskier.”

“Jaskier?” Eskel spins on his heel. “As in Valdo’s Jaskier.”

“Not anymore, according to Jaskier.”

Eskel’s mouth hangs open. He muses over the words for a moment before nodding. “Good for him,” he says simply, before going back to putting away groceries.

Roach settles her chin over Geralt’s arm, pinning his hands in place where they rest against the keyboard of his laptop. The dog looks entirely unbothered by his stare as she slips back into a nap.

Eskel clears his throat. “Listen, uh, Coën invited us out to this bar in Posada.”

“Another night out?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Eskel says. “It’s the weekend. And Coën is one of the few people I do actually like going out with. I just thought I’d mention it to you. You don’t have to go or anything. I know last night might have been a lot for you.”

Geralt’s fingers flex over the keyboard of his laptop. “When will you be going?”

Eskel lifts a shoulder, shoving the last of the groceries into the fridge. “Don’t know. Coën said he’d text me whenever he’s ready.”

All Eskel would have to do is shower and change. He’s wearing the same clothes as last night, albeit freshened up with something and ironed. Geralt wonders vaguely if Coën offered to help. “Can I come?” he finds himself asking.

Eskel’s head snaps over to him. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” His mouth hangs open, more words trying to get out.

Geralt closes his laptop with a small sigh. “If you ask me _am I okay_ one more time—”

“-No, no, it’s just,” Eskel lets out a breathless laugh. “You’ve been wallowing in this apartment for weeks. This is a turnaround. It’s...good.”

* * *

What Eskel doesn’t tell him, though, is that Lambert is also going. He loves his roommates, really he does. They’ve weathered too much shit in their lives together to let each other go now. And when you’ve lived with people since you were all teenagers, you learn to get along.

But you also learn how to get on each other’s nerves.

“Two outings in two days,” Lambert flashes Geralt a toothy grin. “I’d say he’s cured.”

There’s a sharp thud and an answering groan of pain. “Shut up,” Eskel grunts, burying his elbow into Lambert’s side.

Coën laughs from the driver’s seat, casting a quick glance over to Geralt. The man knows when to let his passengers fight it out, and from the sounds of it, it seems that Eskel has everything under control in the back of the car.

Geralt fixes his stare out the window. With every street they take further away from his apartment, his bones ache and his blood chills. Everything in him wants to ask Coën to turn around. But his tongue sits heavily in his mouth.

If he stays at home, he won’t get any better. And he’s pretty sick of feeling sorry for himself.

He doesn’t mean for his mind to wander to Yennefer, but it does. It always seems to. Even though it’s been weeks since they last stood in the same space together, her smell is still in his sheets and he feels her look over his shoulder and press against his back anywhere he goes.

Has she moved on? She doesn’t seem like the kind of person to wallow in sadness. She doesn’t seem like him.

Before he can tumble too far into his own mind, Lambert kicks the back of his seat. “Are you even listening to me?” he balks.

Geralt turns his head. “What?”

There’s a squeak of leather, and suddenly Lambert’s arms are strung over the back of his seat. His stupid smirking face is right by his. “I didn’t know you went off with a guy last night!”

And if his jaw was tight before, it’s starting to rust over now, refusing to move. His mouth does fall open. Coën clicks his tongue. “It’s no business of yours,” he fires back.

Lambert holds up his hands. “I just feel like I’m being left out of the loop.”

He won’t let it go.

“He needed a ride home.” Geralt keeps his eyes on the blur of passing buildings. The neon signs on their fronts blend into one stream of light.

Lambert chuckles. “And when you say _ride_ —” It’s cut off with another sharp elbow into his side.

* * *

The bar Coën brings them too isn’t small by any means, but enough people are packed inside that the walls and roof feel closer than they are. People part for those shuffling around, fighting their way between the bar and the seating booths lining two walls. There’s a smell of whiskey and beer that coats the roof of his mouth.

There’s a nudge to his shoulder. “If you want to bail, just tell me, okay?” Eskel mutters into his ear.

Geralt swallows, nodding stiffly.

It’s not the worst thing in the world. Coën knows a few people already there, seated in a large booth towards a corner of the bar. Around a large circular table, Geralt spots a collection of glasses and beer bottles, most of them empty. Coën’s friends look vaguely familiar. From the number of times Eskel and Lambert tag along with him on nights out, he’s sure that he would have met some of them before.

A curly-haired young woman looks the most familiar. When she looks over to him, a bright smile breaks out over her face. “Geralt!” Clambering over her friends that pin her to the centre of the booth, she stretches out her arms once she’s free. “I haven’t seen you in ages! Where have you been?”

Eskel watches out of the corner of his eye.

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “Busy,” he says simply. “With work stuff.”

“Vesemir has to stop working you all so much,” she laughs, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “I’m sure that the garage won’t fall apart if you took some time off.”

 _If I’m busy, then I’m not thinking_. The words almost leave his mouth, but they stop in their tracks once his jaw clamps shut. Instead, he offers her a small smile before turning back to the table. There are mutterings of ordering more drinks now that the others have arrived.

Triss turns on her heel. “I can go and get them,” she says, already pulling out her phone to take orders. When she’s halfway through noting them all down, she glances over to Geralt. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

He swallows and nods. When dozens of eyes are suddenly on him, how is he supposed to say no?

He can feel Lambert’s smirk bearing into the side of his face. 

When everyone’s order has been taken, Triss links her arm with his and all but drags him away from the table.

They manage to wedge themselves between people to reach the bar. Geralt lifts his hand, flagging the bartender’s attention. Triss shows the man her phone screen. She turns to Geralt. “What would you like?”

Geralt chews the inside of his cheek. “I’m alright, thanks.”

Triss looks at him for a moment before shrugging. “And a whiskey and coke, please.”

There’s a hum of conversation around the bar. People’s shoulders are against his, and it takes more effort than he’s willing to admit just to focus on Triss and her voice when she starts speaking. Folding her arms against the bar, she shoots him a small smile. “So, how have you been? How’s Yenn?”

His breath catches in his throat. It’s shit. No one ever talks about how a name can make you freeze. It’s been weeks, merging into months. He should be over it. Even though Eskel and Lambert don’t say it, they’re probably waiting for the old Geralt to walk back through the door of their apartment one day. A Geralt that doesn’t speak, that keeps to himself, who only goes outside if Roach threatens to tear up furniture if she doesn’t get walked or one of his roommates drags him out by the arm.

But he swallows. A lump tries to catch in his throat. “Uh, we,” he laughs breathlessly, not even looking at the woman. “We broke up. A while ago.”

Triss’ expression all but collapses. “Oh _shit_ , I’m sorry,” she says, wide eyes. “I haven’t seen you both in ages and I didn’t know—”

“It’s okay, Triss,” Geralt offers a small smile. It’s mostly lost when he turns to look at the wall behind the bar. Bottles and taps and framed pictures. The wall’s busy enough to keep his mind occupied for a few minutes. Triss lapses into a short silence, only broken when the barkeep returns with two trays of drinks. She hands him a wad of bills.

She didn’t know, Geralt notices. Triss and Yenn have been friends long before she drifted into Coën’s group. But Coën knew everyone, regardless of where they were in the city. That’s why Geralt and the others know as many people as they do – an extrovert adopted them a few years ago.

But he can’t help but mull over her words. She didn’t know. And if Triss Merigold doesn’t know about his breakup with Yenn, then that could mean that Yenn isn’t talking about it, or that she’s not talking to Triss.

And for some reason, his brain tells him he could have something to do with it.

It’s bollocks, of course. Some logical part of him speaks up. Not everything going wrong in the world is his fault. But there’s always this small, niggling, _loud_ part of his mind that whispers to him in the dead of night; when the rest of the apartment is asleep and he’s staring at the ceiling of his room.

There’s a small stage tucked into the furthest corner of the bar. A drum kit and mic stands are already propped up and amps are stacked to the side. They pass a small crowd trying to gather in front of it. Geralt pays it no mind. It’s only then does he realise that there’s no music playing overhead. All the noise in the bar is coming from chattering people and the occasional broken glass.

He follows Triss back to their table, leaving the trays in the middle. Hands reach and pluck out their own drinks. Eskel stands to let Triss back into her spot with some other well-dressed women. He slides back in and pats the last remaining sliver of free space for Geralt. He’ll stick to the edge of the booth – just in case he needs to make a quick escape.

A small bonus of going out with people like Eskel and Lambert is that they captain most of the conversation. Lambert’s loud laugh is in his ear, as is Eskel’s stories about shitty customers with their shitty requests. A blonde woman, someone he vaguely recognises as Triss’ friend, hides a broad smile behind her hand.

But all of the women with Triss, all of them vaguely recognisable, all cast him quick glimpses. When he looks over, trying to catch one of them, they all blink back to somewhere else.

A sudden wave of energy laps over the crowd in the middle of the bar. Someone whistles sharply, earning a few scattered laughs and calls out. Geralt looks over just in time to see someone clamber up on to the stage, a guitar in hand. Two men follow him, slipping further back on the stage to take up drums and keyboard.

The stage’s light blinks to life and settles on the man by the front.

Geralt’s breath catches in his throat.

Jaskier’s face lights up as the crowd takes notice of him ready to perform. His guitar is slung over his shoulder, fingers already poised by strings. He holds up a hand, getting the crowd to quieten slightly. “I’m freshly dumped! So prepare yourselves for some salty post-breakup songs, ladies and gents!”

A rumble of yells come out of the crowd, most of them laughing and calling out to Jaskier. What they say, Geralt can’t make out through the blood pulsing through his ears.

Jaskier waves his hand. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding. That asshole doesn’t deserve a song,” he laughs. The words are almost drowned out by the cheering of a few people in the bar. A woman shrills _too fucking right!_ and Jaskier laughs into the mic. The sound of it laps over the bar. When it reaches Geralt, he struggles to breathe for a moment. Afterimages from last night become that bit clearer. He remembers the smell of aftershave and product that seeped from the man’s skin and hair. He remembers that laugh in his car and across a restaurant table. He remembers plush lip pressed against his, a hand’s touch scalding his cheek—

Then Jaskier starts to sing. And if he was lost to the man’s laugh, he doesn’t stand a chance against Jaskier’s singing. Armed with only a guitar, he makes the crowd in the bar – people who made noise all throughout the night – lapse into silence. Occasionally his ears prick at some people humming along, mumbling

“You okay?”

Geralt’s head snaps to the side. Eskel’s staring at him, a slight frown over his brow. The man settles a hand on his shoulder. “You haven’t breathed in the last minute and a half. Are you having an attack?”

Geralt’s throat just won’t open. Not because of that coldness that chilled his veins, instilling fear into him that sends him underneath bedsheets, desperate to block it all away. He just...doesn’t have the words. But he shakes his head. _No, I’m not having an attack_ , he tries to send to the other man with his eyes. _But, yeah, I’m fine. Am I? I don’t know._

Eskel’s frown only deepens.

Geralt swallows, forcing words up his throat. “I’m alright.”

The other man keeps staring at him though. He casts a quick glance to the stage – to Jaskier’s bright smile and how he has the crowd ensnared. When Eskel looks back at Geralt, he cocks his head. “Did, did something happen between—?”

_He kissed me._

_He kissed me and for the briefest of moments I didn’t want it to stop._

“Nothing happened,” Geralt rasps. He’s lured back to look at the stage, and he’s just as snared as the rest of them. He doesn’t budge when Lambert nudges people out of the way, saying that he needs to pee. He has to all but shove Geralt out of the booth to get him to move.

But his eyes are glued to the stage. Behind Jaskier turns to black. The lights aimed at the stage aren’t glaring, but they’re enough to make his eyes sting. He should blink. And breathe.

His stomach churns and his chest tightens, and the last time he felt like this was years ago when Yenn—

 _For fuck sake_.

Geralt gets out of the bar as quickly as his feet can carry him. His toes are numb, barely registering each footstep that lands on the floor. If he pushes people out of the way, he doesn’t even register it. He just needs to get out, to somewhere else that isn’t here.

And he finds a door that leads to a smoking area.

It’ll do.

There’s a small group of people gathered around a burning drum to one corner, huddled around it for warmth while they drain the last of their cigarettes. His fingers fidget by his side. If he knew that his words won’t come, he would have asked for one. Gods but he needs _something—_

It’s cold enough outside that the first few deep breaths he can manage sting his lungs. He goes to another corner, pressing his back into the brick of the wall, hoping that the grating of the brick’s edges will make him feel something that isn’t whatever’s trying to pounce on him now.

He’s not sure how long he spends outside. It’s enough time for the other people there to go back inside. The barrel crackles and spits embers. He should go over, try and warm his hands back up. His fingers tips are numb, as are his toes.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

_Eskel: Are you okay?_

Geralt sends back a thumbs up. He’s known for fleeing situations that can be a bit much. That was always his thing. It only got worse after the breakup. Whispers in the back of his mind only had their voices grow. Shadows stalked more areas of his brain. Sometimes it was just too much.

The opening of the door snaps him back to the presence. Three men pile out, chattering among themselves.

Geralt’s eyes lock on to Jaskier’s profile. There’s a sheen of sweat sitting across his brow and cheeks. His skin is flushed red from heat. He’s caught up in a conversation with one of the band – the drummer, Geralt recognises. His hair is slightly askew, even more so when he runs his fingers through it in an attempt to fix it. It makes it worse.

They gather around the drum, warming their hands against the chilling breeze blowing through the grated wall. The smoking area looks out on to the alleyway, but has enough of a divider to separate it from the world outside. If Geralt can keep to the corner, maybe he won’t be seen—

“Hey there, stranger,” Jaskier smiles. Even in the dim lighting, his eyes are so bright.

Geralt swallows, lifting his chin. “Hey,” he offers a small smile.

Jaskier tilts his head. He waves Geralt over. “Come over here, warm up a bit.”

The promise of standing by the drum’s fire puts a faux warmth through him. Or else it’s the way Jaskier shuffles over to make space for him.

Geralt’s feet are moving before he can even decide on what to do.

“This is Geralt,” Jaskier tells the other two men. They both regard him for a moment before offering hands. They’re musicians who are only with Jaskier for now. They tell him about the projects their working on, how playing in bars isn’t their thing anymore.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Performing is a natural high,” he says, rubbing his hands together over the fire.

“You’re better suited to it than us,” one of the men says, a small smile lilting over his lips.

“My friend brought us here,” Geralt replies.

A small, concentrating frown etches Jaskier’s forehead. “The same friend from last night?”

“No, but he’s here too.” Geralt nods to the door back into the bar. “Coën brought us here.”

“Coën,” Jaskier says, mulling the name around on his mouth. He shakes his head. “Don’t think I know him.”

“Do you know everyone?”

“It’s useful,” Jaskier flashes him a small smile before looking back at the drum. The flames are starting to die off, but there’s enough heat left to keep him outside for another couple of minutes. _Good_ , he thinks. The longer he spends standing next to Jaskier, the less he wants to go back inside.

Jaskier buries his hands into his jacket’s pocket. “Are you going anywhere after this?” he asks, lifting his chin.

Geralt blinks. “Uh, no. No, I don’t think so.” He lifts a shoulder. “I’ve done enough socialising to last me a few weeks.”

At that, Jaskier laughs. “I know what you mean,” he says. A smile’s left on his lips, one that apples his cheeks and crinkles his eyes.

Then he realises that the other two men are gone.

It’s just them.

His chest tightens at the thought.

“Listen, um,” Jaskier blows out a breath, reaching behind to rub the back of his neck, “I’m sorry for last night. Um, kissing you. I was drunk and, yeah, it wasn’t fair on you. You had just met me. And I don’t even know if you like guys—”

Geralt’s brain answers all of those statements.

_It’s okay._

_You were drinking, but you weren’t drunk._

_I felt like I had known you my whole life._

_I haven’t even thought about that—_

Jaskier laughs drily. “Yeah, so, um. Sorry about that.”

Geralt presses his lips into a thin line. “It’s okay,” he rasps. He quickly clears his throat.

Jaskier looks at him for a moment, eyes darting between Geralt’s. “Would it be okay, if um, if I got your number? We’re friends, aren’t we? I feel like anyone who offers to take care of Post-Breakdown Me is instantly a friend.”

Geralt’s fingers still by his side. “Yeah,” he eventually says, after a long pause. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Jaskier’s usual smile breaks out over his face. “Great,” he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

Geralt’s phone buzzes in his hand. Bright white light blinks across his face. Looking down at the screen, his heart jumps up to his throat when he sees a message from Yennefer pop up.

_Can we talk?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll ready to fucking hate me?


	3. Chapter 3

It’s worse than a panic attack because he’s completely aware of the tunnel he’s staring down. The sounds of the park, of kids laughing on a swing set and climbing rig nearby, their parents chattering to each other, it all fades away. Blood rushes through his ears.

“How...” He can’t even feel his lips moving. “How far along are you?”

They don’t look at each other. They aren’t even close on the bench, sitting together with a sliver of space separating them. Even when Yennefer crosses her legs, she tilts her foot away from brushing against Geralt’s leg. Her jaw is tight. “Two months.”

His fingers pull and fidget with the edge of his sleeves. The wool there started fraying a long time ago, but the thread peaking out of the stitching work gives him something to occupy his hands with. He doesn’t want her to see how much he’s shaking.

Meeting in a park means that they won’t shout. For two people who don’t give a shit about what other people think, they both realise how it would seem to have an all-out war in the middle of a public park. It’s the one nearest to his apartment. She had to travel for it. Some part of him lingers on that fact; she had to get into her car, drive across the city, find parking, pay for parking, wait for him to show up because no matter what, he’s always late.

The effort that went into...whatever the fuck this is.

Yennefer sighs. “I want you to know that I’m keeping it,” she says. He doesn’t know what’s left in him for her anymore, but he’s proud of the fact her voice doesn’t even tremble as words come pouring out of her. She’s always been better at talking. She tilts her head back, masking blinking back tears as watching a family of sparrows fly out of a nearby tree. “I stopped taking my pill and, Gods I don’t know, the thought of getting rid of it didn’t even cross my mind. I...”

She’s better at him at talking. But she’s still bad at it.

Geralt stares at his boots. The toes of them scuffed from working at the garage for hours on end. He could probably draw the damn boots from memory from how long he’s been staring at them.

His takeaway coffee is slowly turning cold. He could use it to warm his hands. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to feel his fingertips. Yennefer’s own cup is between her hands, but she hasn’t taken a single sip. Her lipstick hasn’t smudged the white rim of the lid. It’s still perfectly painted across her lips. Lips that are pulled into a tight line.

He needs to get back to the apartment. There are orders to go through for the garage, day rotas to fill out. He needs to call Vesemir and give him the weekly update. Things he can do to stop his brain from obsessing over the words he just heard.

But he swallows the lump trying to lodge in his throat. “Uh, that’s...Yeah, whatever you want

“It’s not just what I want though, Geralt,” Yennefer says. She tries to hold back a harsh sigh. There’s a small tell from the slight tightening and relaxing of her entire body.

“This kid cannot just have me,” Yennefer says, “they’ll need the two of us.”

 **_You’re_ ** _the one who broke up with me._

Yennefer presses on. “I know we didn’t work out but,” she sighs harshly, looking over to a pack of dogs and their walker that come into the park. “But could I have you around for them? I won’t be able to do it on my own.”

She has a life. He’s been with her for most of it – college, graduating, getting an internship into that law firm in Aedirn, when she was offered a permanent job there. He’s seen her life take off into the distance while his stayed rooted to a garage in Kaedwen and a shared apartment of two other guys.

And now she has to deal with this.

“I won’t let you be alone in this,” Geralt says after a time. When he lifts his eyes to meet hers, he has to fight to keep his breath in his lungs, and not let it rush out of his nose. It’s the first time he’s properly looked at her since he joined her on the bench and she handed over a cup of coffee.

Her usual violent eyes are bloodshot. Dark circles slump heavily underneath them. The corners of her mouth are pulled down. Geralt swallows. “You won’t be alone. I promise.”

* * *

“I’m not surprised that you knocked her up,” Vesemir grumbles over the hiss of the frying pan, “the two of you had sex on every surface of that apartment.”

“ _Vesemir_.”

The older man holds up his hands. “I’m just saying!” he goes back to tending to some strips of fatty bacon and frying eggs. A tower of toast is stacked on the breakfast bar already. Geralt has taken some of it, happy enough to eat dry toast for now. Whether or not he’ll eat the food put in front of him, that remains to be seen. Sometimes his battles with his brain churn his stomach.

Vesemir glances over to him. This time, his eyes are kinder. Softer. More like Vesemir’s. “Seriously though, is she okay?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah she’s...she’s fine. All things considered.” Vesemir stares at him, arching an eyebrow. _And you?_ Geralt picks up another slice of dry toast. “I’m fine. Just...shocked.”

Vesemir hums. When the bacon and eggs are done, he slides them on to a large serving plate. He puts it on the breakfast bar between him and Geralt, gesturing for the other man to take whatever he wants. He pads over to the fridge, taking out a carton of orange juice. “Did you even sleep?” Vesemir asks.

Loading up a plate with some food, Geralt shakes his head.

Vesemir makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Once you’ve eaten – and you _are_ eating – I want you to go into the spare room and take a nap.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t try that bullshit with me, boy,” Vesemir huffs, dragging up a seat to sit across from Geralt. The older man points a fork at him. “You’re so far from being fine. You’ve had a god awful couple of weeks. Either you start taking care of yourself or I’m going to have to get out the big guns.”

“You already have Eskel and Lambert tracking my every move.”

“I couldn’t rely on those pups for anything,” Vesemir says over the lip of his glass. “If you don’t start looking after yourself then I’m moving into that apartment to keep an eye on you myself.”

 _Oh God, no_. Vesemir barks out a laugh at the thought splashing across Geralt’s expression. “Unless you want to deal with this old man living with you pups, then get your shit together.”

From anyone else, Geralt would have probably thrown a punch. It’s not like he hasn’t been trying. It’s the first time in weeks where proper food has gone into him, where he’s showered more than once a week, where he’s managed to drag his arse out of the flat for things other than grocery runs.

But Vesemir knows his brain, and the workings of it. The man raised him. He knows what’s buried deep in there, and how easily it can be set off. So if Vesemir uses a slightly firmer hand in order to get Geralt to start looking after himself, it’s only because it’s a tried and proven method.

When he’s cleared his plate, and satisfied the older man that he has eaten an ample amount of food, Geralt heads for the spare room. Vesemir’s house is actually smaller than the apartment, but it’s only for him. He gave the apartment to the three of them because what use would he have with a spare two bedrooms? He couldn’t ask only two of his three pups to live with him. They always looked for places together. Why not just let them live together?

When Vesemir moved out of the city, he found a small cottage in the forest. It’s enough for his needs – them being to be as far away from any resemblance of a city for the rest of his life. The apartment and the garage were given to the three of them and that was that.

The spare bedroom is small, but Geralt isn’t going to stay for long. Vesemir will wash the dishes and head out to the small vegetable garden he has out back. And Geralt will sleep. Because it hasn’t been a friend of his for a couple of days. Whenever he’s about to slip under, whispers will wisp against the shell of his ear. Words from Yennefer that morning. Conversations had with a musician in his car. The musician’s lips against his.

And all of it just chases sleep away.

Sleeping with the knowledge that Vesemir is nearby, that if he’s needed, he’ll come through the door and chase the ghosts away, it’s enough to get his eyelids heavy and drooping. But he still waits for the whispers, for the afterimages to flicker in front of him.

It never comes.

* * *

Sunlight streaming in through a slit in the curtains wakes him. Fighting the urge to bury his face into the pillow, Geralt sits up. He can feel how strewn about his hair is. He fights to get the tie out from a few knots, and tries to tame his hair back into a manageable bun. His muscles groan when he tries shuffling out of bed, moving the layers of sheets and blankets out of his way. When his bare feet touch the cold floorboards, he tries not to let a shiver get him back into bed.

Slipping on his jacket and boots, Geralt pads back out into the kitchen. Vesemir is by the sink, a pile of carrots and turnips stacked beside him, being washed and peeled. Vesemir gestures to his phone, still sitting on the breakfast bar. “Someone texted you about an hour ago,” he says, washing the last of the vegetables, “you were out cold, so I left you.”

Geralt hums. “Thanks,” he mumbles. A preview of the text flashes over the top of the screen.

_Hey, it’s Jaskier!..._

He blinks at the screen for a second. Distantly, he’s aware of Vesemir watching him out of the corner of his eye. Picking up his phone, he taps out his pin.

_Hey, it’s Jaskier! Hope this is the right number. I was just wondering if you’d like to hang out sometime? Not as a date. Unless you wanted it to be a date. Then that’s cool. But if you don’t, that’s fine._

Even in his text, he rambles.

Geralt’s thumbs hover over the screen. His eyes are drawn to the middle of the text. _Date_. It stands out, like the word itself was highlighted in bold. His brain isn’t in the right mode to be dealing with any of that.

He taps out a quick reply.

**_Hey, yeah this is Geralt. I’m actually busy for the next few days. I’ll think about it._ **

He pauses.

The message sends before he can delete any part of it.

Vesemir is quiet. Too quiet. “What?” Geralt asks, slipping his phone into his back pocket.

The older man shrugs. “Nothing.”

* * *

Jaskier, it turns out, is pretty well known around the city. He couldn’t escape the man even if he tried. Old posters with his name fading from them still cling to the outside of neighbouring bars and theatres. The posters are slowly being torn apart by weather and time. Some of them have segments of new posters stuck over, but even they’re starting to fray.

Roach nudges his leg, trying to get Geralt back on track with their walk to the garage. The dog doesn’t walk on a leash, knowing to keep to Geralt’s heel when they’re walking on the street. Despite that though, Geralt still has her lead coiled up in his hand. God knows when a child will run over to her, wanting to pet her head. She’d never hurt a child. She might be a bitch to Eskel and Lambert, but she knows not to lift a lip to kids.

Still, he can’t rely on grown-ass people.

Even when they’re a street away from the garage, he spots a middle-aged couple slowing, obviously pointing to the retriever and commenting on how glossy her coat is.

Geralt snaps his fingers. Roach’s ears twitch. They keep walking past.

The garage deals with most of the city’s car problems. Because of how well Vesemir had his contacts spread, the building has gone under renovations to keep it standing. The business is still doing well – even with Vesemir’s contacts mourning the loss of the older man from their meetings. _I raised this pups myself_ , he said once, ruffling Lambert’s curls, _they’ll be just as good as me._

When they’re close enough to the large opening to the garage, Roach breaks into a sprint. Her tail wags so fast that it’s a golden blur as she scurries to Coën’s feet. “Hey there, girlie!” The wrench in his hand drops to the ground with a clatter. Crouching down, Coën laughs as wet kisses are slobbered all over his face. “How are you today?”

“She’s good,” Geralt answers, pocketing his hands. Coën lifts his chin in greeting. It almost gets him knocked the ground when Roach insists on pawing at his chest. Geralt smiles. “Next week’s rota is done up. I’ll print it off and put it in the office.”

Coën nods, though it’s mostly lost to a coil of golden fluff that scurries around him. His hands get lost in her hair. She really needs to be groomed, but the last time he drove her across town to the groomer, she didn’t speak to him for three days. And Geralt needs all the help he can get.

With a click of his fingers, the retriever returns to his side, tongue out and panting. She follows him into the office. It looks out on to the main shop. A few cars are already hoisted up on to the lifts. Geralt spots Eskel’s usual overall-covered legs sticking out from underneath a car.

Roach settles into a plush bed that’s pushed into the corner for her. Even when this was Vesemir’s office, the man was so smitten with the dog that he bought her the bed himself. When Geralt worked out on the floor, he made his peace with the fact that Roach preferred being in the office, especially on colder days. With a radiator that was always on, Vesemir as company, and a full dish of snacks, why would she even bother leaving?

He gets through most of the emails from clients and prints out the next roster when his phone buzzes. He picks it up without even looking at the sender.

What pops up on the screen is a small, black and white photo. A message underneath it simply says _8 weeks_.

It’s a blob, what more can he say. When the urge to hurl his phone across the desk is gone, he brings up the picture, trying to zoom in on it. It’s hard to see, but through the greyscale and fuzzy background, he sees a bright form. It doesn’t look like a baby at all, but he can’t stop his breath from catching in his throat when his brain tries to make out a head and arms and legs.

He doesn’t even register the office door opening, or Lambert poking his head in.

Roach patters over to him, nudging his knee. When he looks up, it’s to see Lambert slowly recoiling from seeing tears start to stream down his face. Because Geralt has been miserable for weeks on end, but he’s never cried. And Lambert being Lambert, he doesn’t know how to deal with that. “Gods, are you okay?” he asks, slipping into the office and shutting the door behind him.

Geralt sniffs. “Could you get Eskel?” His voice cracks and wobbles and some part of him hates it, but Lambert is soon out of the room and rushing back into the shop, hauling Eskel out from beneath a car by his ankles. He almost gets a wrench to the side of the head when Lambert’s words register with him.

Eskel almost pushes Lambert out of the way trying to get into the office, wiping oil from his hand. “Are you okay? Why are you crying? Do you need anything? Do you need to go home?—”

Geralt holds out his phone, screen pointed to the two men. “Look,” he says, words trying to stick, but claw up his throat.

Both men crouch to look at the screen. Both of their mouths drop at the same time.

“Holy-”

“-Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s not that his mood lightens the second he learns about the baby.

It’s not that every single bad thing his brain tries to tell him, or make him feel, instantly goes away just because of a promised baby.

It’s that a small clump of cells the size of an apple, soon to be a _baby_ , fills up more of his thoughts than any of the usual bad shit.

Not all of it is good, he’ll admit that. His life, if anything, has just gotten more complicated. He’s trying to maintain a good ex-boyfriend distance from Yennefer, while also helping her emotionally and mentally with anything she needs.

He doesn’t even freak out when she asks him to drive her to an appointment.

“It’s just to make sure everything is fine,” Yennefer says, pulling her coat tighter around herself. Her middle has barely even swollen. It’s only been a handful of weeks. But she’ll say that it’s cold and that she isn’t suited for the winter; despite the fact that Geralt has been blasting the heater for the past thirty minutes, warming up the car for her.

When they get to the clinic, Yennefer is halfway out of the car before she looks back inside. Geralt still sits in the driver’s seat, unmoving. She arches a pencilled eyebrow. “Are you coming?”

His mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. “Um, if you want, if you want me to come?”

Yennefer makes an active effort not to roll her eyes. “Come on,” she says, slipping out of the car and shutting the door.

 _We’re only together for the baby_. Her explicit words still ring through his ears. Their Skype call about it was only a week ago, but his mind still churns over every little thing that was said. He agrees, of course. It took him a while to realise that they’ll never work out. Sometimes people who seem right for each other don’t click. And that’s life. Nothing will ever keep them together. Well, nothing will ever keep them stuck together _happily_.

But this baby—

He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets when they wait for the nurse to call them. He tries not to tap his foot on the floor when they’re lead into an exam room. He tries not to gag at the powerful smell of antibacterial handwash and disinfectant.

Couples surround them, pressed close together. Mothers have their hands resting on their bumps, fathers have their hand on top of their wife’s. Geralt looks at the silver of space that’s between him and Yennefer. A shuffle over would have his shoulder pressed against hers. But she seems leagues away.

The nurse smiles at them both, but her eyes are on Geralt. “This is your first?” she asks, setting a pen against her clipboard.

Yennefer clears her throat. “Yes.”

The nurse nods. “The husbands always look nervous when it’s the first,” she flashes a toothy smile.

Neither of them corrects her.

Most of it passes him in a blur. Yennefer is more than prepared; answering most of the nurse’s questions herself, giving information about the two of them, their blood types, family medical histories – something Geralt couldn’t get hold of on his side. He tries not to let his face colour too much when he answers a stream of questions with _I don’t know_. The nurse’s brows pull together, but he can’t feel anything bad coming off of her.

The nurse sets the clipboard to the side. “Right!” she says, gesturing to the bed on the other side of the room. An ultrasound stands nearby. Geralt’s eyes focus on that. Yennefer shuffles over, slipping off her coat. Geralt clears his throat, holding out an arm.

“I can take it,” he says quietly.

Yennefer offers him a small, barely-there smile. One that barely curls her lip. She hands over her coat.

“You had a scan recently?” the nurse says, pulling up a chair beside the bed.

Yennefer sets her hands on her chest, looking to the side. Geralt slowly pads over to her side, eyes focused on the scanner’s display. When the nurse picks up the wand, smearing gel over it and Yennefer’s stomach, she nods. “Yeah, um. The nurse said to come back because she thought she saw something. But she didn’t think it was serious. ”

The nurse nods. “I thought I saw something about that on your file,” she hums, setting the wand on to Yennefer’s stomach.

There’s a moment when everything is just still. No sound. Not even a breath. But when the familiar sight of a baby pops up on the screen, curled in on itself with flaying hands, Geralt sets a hand on the top of the bed to stay steady.

Yennefer sniffs. “Hey there,” she whispers.

The nurse clears them within minutes. She sits back, wiping most of the gel from Yen’s stomach. “Well, I think the nurse before just saw a shadow or something. I see nothing wrong with your baby.”

And for the first time in a long time, Geralt feels like he can breathe.

* * *

She hates that she’s compromised. It doesn’t show on her face. She’s always been good at hiding emotions. He makes the mistake of trying to hold the car door open for her, and she sends him a withering stare. He never does it again.

Maybe when she starts showing, he’ll try it again. But he doesn’t miss how climbing in and out of his car, she holds one hand over her middle. When they’re walking down the street, her hands are folded over, shielding it from the world. She masks it well enough – trying to pass it off as holding the lapels of her coat together. But something warms Geralt’s blood when she’s just standing there, hand over her middle, thumb gently caressing the fabric of her coat.

They may never have worked out, but he’s already in love with that being growing in her. Any time he thinks about it, every chill that had haunted his body for the last few months just goes away. For the briefest of moments, he feels...fine. Nothing whispers words into his ear at night. Nothing chills his blood and strangles his chest.

There’s an hour before they both need to get back to work. Geralt’s is more lenient. If he wanders into the garage late, Eskel and Lambert will just wave him off. Or plague him with questions about the baby.

_What is it? A boy or a girl? We have a bet with the lads at the garage. Please say it’s a girl, Geralt, I have fifty quid riding on this._

But Yennefer’s firm doesn’t know yet. And she plans to keep it that way until her fitted suits aren’t fitting anymore. A fact that she’s slowly coming to begrudging terms with.

They decide to steer clear of any and all restaurants and cafes they went to when they were together. Even now, when he takes Roach for a walk, he pointedly avoids walking down streets where their old haunts used to be.

He lets her pick. There’s a Mediterranean place a few streets away from her firm, somewhere she goes when she’s at work. Geralt drives them there. It’s lunchtime for the rest of the city. When Geralt follows her into the restaurant, he tries not to look at the small hoards of suited businesspeople and lawyers. If any of them recognise Yennefer as she leads them to a nearby table, no one comes over to talk.

Lunch is simple enough, if not quiet. He can count on one hand the number of times she speaks to him during the day. Well, she speaks to him. She talks to him about logistics with the baby; when it’s born, how they will share time with it, how much money will both of them contribute to raising it.

But they don’t ask about their own lives outside of that.

Geralt’s phone sits beside his lunch. Yennefer is absorbed in her own work, answering a short call from one of her colleagues about what to expect when she’s back in work.

A text pops up on his screen.

_Jaskier : How are you? _

Geralt blinks at the message for a second before he taps out a quick reply.

 **Geralt : Good. Getting some food before heading back to work**.

_Jaskier : Work? Gross. You should be a freelancer like me. Endless vacation days :P_

Yennefer looks between him and his phone. “How’s Eskel and Lambert?” she asks, picking at her salad.

“They’re good.” Yennefer nods. She’s never been particularly fond of them, but they always got along. If she was going to be in Geralt’s life, then she needed to share the space with Eskel and Lambert. They were just as important to him. She had friends of her own.

“I met Triss two weeks ago,” Geralt says after a time. “She said that she didn’t know about us.”

“Never came up in conversation, I guess,” she lifts a shoulder. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

Geralt nods. Triss said as much at the bar. It’s strange. He met Triss through Yen. The two of them were joined at the hip since college. So much so that Geralt couldn’t meet one without the other being around the corner.

And now even mentioning the other woman around Yenn feels strange. He doesn’t chase it. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, he won’t make her. She’ll be going in a couple of minutes, once the last of her food is gone. And then who knows when he’ll see her again – for another appointment, or a call in the middle of the day to arrange something with stuff for the baby. She’s already been carding through brochures about bassinets and pushchairs and other things that make Geralt’s heart want to burst out of his chest. The idea of the baby keeps his blood warm, but whenever Yennefer texts him about he thinks of her birthing plan, the coldness comes back. It’s then when it becomes a bit too real.

There’s a baby on the way, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Yennefer tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have to go,” she says lowly, gathering her phone and coat. Geralt stands with her. His hands twitch by his side, wanting to reach out and help with _something_. But she’d hate it.

Geralt nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “If you need anything else, just, I don’t know, text me.”

Yennefer folds her arms in front of her chest. She nods. “Thanks. For today.”

He nods again, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

* * *

Texting Jaskier lasts throughout the day. He learns from the other man that his own version of ‘work’ doesn’t usually start until 6pm. A series of gigs promised to some bar owner in Temeria will keep him going for the next few days. After that, Geralt learns, the man is completely free.

His thumbs hover over his phone screen. _Do you want to hang..._

The door to the office creaks open and Lambert comes in, wiping smudges of oil and grease from his hands. Geralt deletes the message, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

Lambert watches him out of the corner of his eye. “How’s the Wicked Witch of the West?”

Geralt throws a glare over to the man. “ _Yennefer_ is fine.”

Lambert flashes a toothy grin. “Hey listen, she broke your heart. Law dictates that I’m allowed to hate her now.”

“You’ve always hated her,” Geralt grumbles, turning back to the computer. A couple of invoices need to be checked and stored away and then he can leave. Roach has spent the day napping, happily curled up in her bed beside the radiator. She doesn’t even lift her lip in a growl when Lambert crosses the office, taking up a seat on the other side of the desk.

Lambert cocks his head. “True. But now I can do it openly.”

Geralt grunts.

“How’s the baby?”

“Fine.”

A long, pronounced silence sits over them, broken only by Geralt’s fingers tapping the keys of the computer. He keeps his eyes on the screen, aiming to have the last of his work done before five so he can just go home. But home is where Lambert and Eskel are. The only downfall of living and working with them is that he cannot escape them.

“I’d have a better conversation with you, Roach,” Lambert sighs, throwing a glance over to the dog. She lifts her head, cocking her ears at the mention of her name. When it becomes apparent that Lambert doesn’t have anything for her, she huffs and buries her head back between her paws. Lambert blinks. “I guess not, then. God, she truly is your dog.”

Geralt’s lip lifts in a small smile. “She’s the apartment’s dog.”

“She’s _your_ dog,” Lambert corrects. “I risk losing a finger any time I go near her.”

Geralt hums. Lambert stays in the office, occasionally twirling around on the chair. Despite how many _stop it_ s Geralt can grumble at him, he keeps going, craning his head around to get a better look at the small trinkets Vesemir has collected over the years.

When Geralt finally switches the computer off, Lambert is the first standing. “Did you drive here?” he asks. Geralt has barely nodded before a smile breaks out on Lambert’s face. “Good! I need to get some things. Can I get a lift?”

Geralt throws a quick look over to Roach. She’s looking back at him, tail thumping against her bed. “Alright,” he sighs, standing up. The dog quickly follows, stumbling out of bed and rushing to the office’s door. Geralt points his keys at Lambert. “But Roach sits up front with me.”

“What?”

“It’s her spot,” he shrugs, leading them through the garage. Roach has already broken out into the sprint, rushing towards the passenger door of his car. He throws a quick look over his shoulder. “Unless you want to fight her for it?”

Lambert blanches.

* * *

It’s late.

It’s late and there’s this _humming_ noise nearby.

Geralt slowly climbs awake. His room is dark, with the odd stream of orange streetlamp light streaking in through his window. Roach’s snores fill the air, the dog curled up and nestled into his side.

Why the fuck is he awake? He lifts his head from his pillow just as light from his phone breaks out into the darkness.

He blinks, reaching for it. Without looking at the screen, he answers the call before it can drop. “Hello?” he rasps, rubbing at his eyes.

“Hey,” a familiar voice is suddenly in his ear. It takes Geralt a sleep-addled moment to realise it’s Jaskier. “I’m sorry for, uh, for calling you so late, but I was wondering if...”

There are muffled sounds in the background. Geralt frowns. Music thumping and people chattering.

Jaskier clears his throat. “You know what, it's fine. Sorry again for calling.”

“No,” Geralt shuffles, sitting up against the bed’s headboard. Roach grunts as his legs slip out from underneath her head. Geralt checks the time. It’s almost three in the morning. “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

Jaskier sniffs. It’s a sound that has Geralt a bit more awake. He listens closer, trying to make out where in God’s name the man is. Because he can hear what seems to be a party in the background. There’s a dry laugh through the phone. “I, um. I’m not feeling great. I’m at a party in Posada, and I just, I don’t know, I can’t be here anymore.” His words are tight. “Could um, God it sounds so dumb, but could you come and...?”

 _Could you come and get me?_ Geralt looks out the window. He didn’t pull his blinds all the way over, but he can see the moon perched high up in the sky, thick blackened clouds trying to block the light out from the streets below. Geralt clears his throat. “Yeah, um, yeah, sure. Just, just gimme ten minutes.”

Jaskier sniffs again. “Thanks. Really, Geralt, thank you.”

Roach watches as he pulls on some clothes – worn jeans, a leather jacket, and his boots. When he grabs his car keys from his desk, the retriever’s head pops up. Her tail thumps against the bed. “No, stay here,” he says simply. Roach huffs, curling back in on herself to go back to sleep.

He leaves the door slightly ajar for her to go out if she wants. His phone buzzes again with a text. An address. Geralt locks the apartment door behind him and jogs down to his car. Sleep slips from his shoulders. As soon as he steps out into the street, the chilling night air jerks him awake.

Posada isn’t the longest drive away. And with this early in the morning, or late at night, yielding not a lot of traffic, Geralt finds himself in the neighbourhood quicker than expected. The address Jaskier sent him is a townhouse in a seemingly nice neighbourhood. It looks like all of the others within the borough, with properly cobbled streets, trimmed trees and shrubs lining the streets.

When Jaskier looks up at him, Geralt frowns. “You okay?” he asks slowly.

“Not particularly,” he sniffs, touching the back of his hand to his nose. He's been crying. Or else, his eyes are reddening from trying _not_ to cry.

Geralt glances up. The door to the house is open. Looking into the hallway, he spots a couple of people pressed up against the wall, sipping on beers and glasses of wine. Not one of them glances outside, more occupied with holding conversations between themselves. His can hear the faint thumping of music from upstairs. A howling laugh then breaks through. He winces. Even standing outside the house, the noise is too much.

Geralt jingles his keys, catching Jaskier’s attention. “Want to come with me and get some pizza?” he offers.

And Jaskier’s face crumbles. He sucks in a tight breath. “Yeah,” a sob wrangles out of his throat. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

Geralt nods to his car. “Come on, then.”

The sooner he can get Jaskier away from the house, the better. Even when they both climb into the car and he pulls away, he has to try and not rush away from the street too quickly. The streets are quiet, with a few cars still passing.

A rolled-up cigarette is nestled behind Jaskier’s ear. Setting it between his lips, he pats at his jacket pockets before growling. “Fuck _sake_ ,” he sighs.

Geralt reaches over to the glove compartment, fumbling around for his lighter. He holds it out to the man. “Thanks,” Jaskier grunts, lighting up the cigarette.

Geralt gets them a few blocks away from the house. “So what was that about?” he nods back the way they came.

“Fucking Valdo _fucking_ Marx,” Jaskier huffs, rubbing at his face with his free hand. “Just, fucking, _being himself_.”

A small laugh leaves him. “Fair enough, but that doesn’t tell me a lot.” Geralt casts a quick glance over to his passenger. Jaskier has an elbow set against the car door, pinching the bridge of his nose with two of his fingers. “Shit, sorry, do you mind?” he asks suddenly, gesturing to the lit cigarette.

Geralt shakes his head. “No, go ahead.”

“I usually wouldn’t,” he says, taking a long drag. When he blows out a plume of smoke, some tension leaves his shoulders. “Isn’t great for the voice, but God, I need to smoke something.”

At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow. But he doesn’t chase it. He said something similar on the roof all those nights ago – he didn’t like to smoke because it ruined his voice.

The rest of the journey is quiet as he takes them into the main city. There’s a handful of late-night places around that would happily serve those stumbling out of closing bars and pubs. He knows one of them well, with how often Eskel and Coën go to it and sing their praises. They park just outside the restaurant, wordlessly wandering inside out of the bitter almost-winter wind. A waitress who looks far too awake for a three int he morning shift leads them over to a small booth, leaving menus and promising to be back in a second.

Jaskier slips into the booth first. When he drifts passed Geralt, smoke and whiskey wisp past him again. He’s flung back to the roof, to the night of wanting to be alone and then suddenly not. The night he met Jaskier.

There’s something about the man. Something he can’t quite put his finger on it. He rambles in his texts. Geralt’s phone heats up with how often they talk through the day – even when Geralt only sends back one-worded answers, Jaskier continues with his long-winded, rambling streams of thought about something or other. Or something that happened with the latest gig he played. Or how he’s going to get a foothold in the industry and he’s going to take off soon, leaving everyone behind.

That particular text made Geralt stop for a second.

He’d leave everyone behind.

Some small part of Geralt wondered if he was included in that.

The waitress comes and goes, orders taken, and they’re left alone. Another small group sit on the other side of the restaurant, recounting the night out among themselves. When Geralt glances at Jaskier, a frown etches into his brow at how the other man stares off into the distance, not entirely there. “You okay?” he asks slowly.

Jaskier blinks. Rubbing a hand over his face, he lets out a sharp, huffing laugh. “He, um,” he starts, and for the first time since Geralt has known him, which isn’t long, Jaskier can’t find the right words. “I didn’t know he’d be there. If I did, I would have stayed _well clear_.”

Geralt nods. He keeps quiet, hoping the silence lapping over them will prompt the man to keep talking.

Once the words are out of him though, Geralt finds that there isn’t a lot he can do to stop it. A deep frown is etched into Jaskier’s brow. Something that looks so uncomfortably foreign. He finds himself missing his smile – the one he wears on stage, the one that takes up half of his face, spreading from ear to ear and crinkling his eyes. Seeing him now, shoulders slumped and a faded look in his eye, it doesn’t sit well with him at all. Jaskier sets his elbows on the table, burying his face into his hands for a second. Drawing in a deep breath, he reaches out to fidget with a napkin. “So, Valdo has been saying some shit about me. That’s fine. Exes do that, I guess. I know I have. But he’s been... _fuck_. He has all of these connections to people in the music world, and I don’t know, I guess that’s why I was with him as long as I was. But...”

When their food comes, and it’s set down between them, neither of them even glances at it.

Jaskier presses on. “He’s a pretty influential guy, and when someone like him starts telling people that you’re a _talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses_ , well then,” Jaskier grunts, “that hits different.”

Geralt frowns. He’s quiet. And sometimes his quietness has been taken by other people as anger. Most of the time, it isn’t the case. He was always a quiet person.

But he can feel how his blood is starting to heat at the thought of someone like _Valdo Marx_ saying things like that about someone like Jaskier.

Jaskier stuffs a few fries into his mouth. He lifts a shoulder. “Who fucking cares what he thinks anyway?” he tries to laugh, but it’s nothing more than an exhale of breath.

 _You care_ , Geralt thinks, but wordlessly turning to his own food. _You care. A lot._

And no matter how many times he thinks that the conversation is just going to end there, Jaskier rekindles it. A lot of it starts with _did you know that Valdo_ —

He presses the knuckles of his fingers into his closed eyes. “God, why the fuck am I still talking about him?”

“You’re angry.”

Jaskier nabs a fry, pointing it towards Geralt. “Too fucking right I’m angry!”

And there's a moment when they lapse into silence. It's not one he feels the need to fill. Jaskier doesn't fill it either with ramblings about nothing. But just as he's eased himself into how comfortable it seems to be, Jaskier speaks. 

“You mentioned before, after we...well, before you dropped me off at my apartment, the night we met,” Jaskier says, “you said that you had gotten out of a relationship too.”

He supposes he did. But then again, his brain at the time was fried, and more occupied with trying to keep soft lips against his rather than holding on to his secrets. But now, with more of his wits about him than before, Geralt grunts, picking at a piece of pizza crust.

_And there’s a baby._

Something that had brought warmth into him is now just churning his insides.

He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him. “So what’s the story there?” he asks idly, quickly snatching some fries on the outskirts of Geralt’s plate.

And Geralt sends the man a glare.

Jaskier shrugs. “You know too much about me and my failed attempt at a relationship, friend,” he says simply. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I’ll leave you here.”

Jaskier snorts. “You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you well enough. You’d get a block away before you’d start feeling bad.”

“I wouldn’t turn around.”

“So you _would_ feel bad!” Jaskier’s face lights up, and for a brief moment, he looks like Jaskier. The Jaskier before Valdo Marx’s shitty opinions that he can stuff up his ass—

Geralt grunts. If he eats, he can’t speak. But the man on the other side of the table merely _stares_ at him, a loose smile over his lips.

Eventually, too much time has passed. Geralt sighs. “We just didn’t work out.”

Jaskier balks. “You can’t just give me _that_!” He gestures to himself. “You’ve seen post-breakdown me. Twice!”

And...Geralt will admit; it’s a sight. The man’s eyes are red, with dark shadows underneath. Somehow, his face looks even gaunter than before – but he’ll blame it on the watery, fluorescent lights overhead.

Drawing in a steady breath, he looks over to some other corner of the restaurant. “We just didn’t work out,” he says again, hoping that if he just keeps digging into pizza and bread and fries maybe Jaskier will just drop it.

The other man is quiet for a moment. Until he nods. “Alright then,” he says simply, taking a long sip of his drink.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. The other group of people leave, stumbling back out into the city. A few of the women shriek as a blast of cold air washes over them. The waitress wanders over, saying that they’ll be closing up in the next thirty minutes. But neither of them, Geralt notices, has food left to pick at. So with a quick glance at the other man, Jaskier nods, and they leave.

Stepping out into the city, Geralt zips up his jacket and buries his fists into his pockets. His car isn’t far away. Jaskier bundles the lapels of his coat around himself, burying his nose into his scarf. Once they’ve slipped into Geralt’s car, shielded from the wind, he switches on the radiator to warm them both up.

The car and they sit there, silently looking out on to the streets of Posada’s inner city. It’s starting to quieten down now. Hopefully, Geralt thinks, he’ll be able to get home for some wisps of sleep. Neither Lambert or Eskel will care if he wanders into the garage late. But he needs sleep.

“I’m sorry about this,” Jaskier says lowly. It’s not a tone of voice he’s heard out of the man. It has a slight rasp. When Geralt glances over, Jaskier’s looking down at his hands in his lap, fingers picking at each other. “You met me a few weeks ago and now you’re my In Case of Emergency call.”

Looking at the man’s profile, it hits him that he can see a lot of himself in Jaskier. That Otherness that had loomed over him, stalked him wherever he went, it’s hanging over Jaskier too. It’s quieter than Geralt’s, but he can only imagine what it whispers to Jaskier at night. In the weeks since the party, since Valdo Marx took the man’s heart and chucked it out on to the streets below his apartment, Geralt has a strange feeling that he’s the only person that Jaskier has been talking to. Really talking to.

Geralt hums. “It’s alright,” he says just as lowly.”Do...do you want to go home?”

A sniff echoes through the car. Jaskier nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

And they go.

And if some, quiet part of Geralt whispers against the shell of his ear that he wants Jaskier to try and kiss him again, to make him feel something, he doesn’t say.

And he tries not to feel too disappointed when Jaskier mumbles another soft _thanks_ and slips out of his car, and starts up towards his apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Geralt is going through A Lot in his life, and I wanted to reflect some of that maelstrom with how his mind and thoughts work. With Yennefer & Baby & Jaskier all living in his brain, he's sort of being pulled in different directions and...Who knows what will happen next? Certainly not me.


	5. Chapter 5

Time just passes.

It’s a strange sensation, to realise that time and life is just flitting by. His days fall into a routine; getting work, going to the garage for a few hours, having calls with Yennefer about baby-stuff, and coming home. He’s fine with the routine. It makes the days pass. And it’s the first time in a long time since he’s felt the need to wish for a day to just end.

That’s not to say that he’s fine. When he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling of his room, his throat starts to close up and he just has this urge to _move_. Something stalks the shadows of his room, waiting until he’s just on the edge of sleep, before whispers start.

He’ll sleep. Sleep will always drag him under eventually. But for a brief moment in the night, all of his usual day-time thoughts come at him at once.

In between all of this, though, there’s Jaskier. The man texts him regularly throughout the day. In the mornings, it’s a _hello_ and a _how are you_. In the evenings, when Geralt shuffles home and sets tosses his keys aside, he’s plagued with texts about Jaskier’s next performance at some bar in Temeria. His phone has been going off in his pocket all day. During the busier stretches of time at the garage, when the phone is ringing with orders and people trying to make appointments, he doesn’t have any time to entertain the other man.

But now he’s at home, Geralt unlocks his phone and is welcomed with a chain of texts, one after the other. He tries not to roll his eyes at a spread of texts coming through.

_Jaskier: Some people are just the worst_

_Jaskier: You’d think in today’s technological age people would communicate more. But nope_

_Jaskier: I’m ready. Why aren’t they?_

_Jaskier: God I should be a solo artist_

_Jaskier: He Who Shall Not Be Named probably had something to do with this_

_Jaskier: Do you know how much an assassin is to hire? Asking for a friend_

There’s a small pause in the texts.

_Jaskier: Could you come here and help? I’m sure he’d take one look at you and shit himself_

At that, Geralt replies.

**_Geralt: What do you mean?_ **

The reply is instant.

_Jaskier: Geralt. Have you seen you? You look like you could snap someone in half_

**_Geralt: It’s not really a compliment when the guy I’m meant to be killing is half my size_ **

_Jaskier: So you would kill a guy for me! How sweet x_

“Stop that.”

Geralt looks up just in time to see Lambert wandering over to the fridge. He has an empty glass in his hand, and a pen holding his curls back into a small bun. Fishing out a Coke can, Lambert keeps an eye on the man. Geralt frowns. “What?”

“You’re smiling,” Lambert says slowly, “its...weird. You spent so long moping around the flat, it’s just weird seeing you, I don’t know, happy?”

 _Happy_ is a word. He’s not sure how he feels. What he felt before, it hasn’t gone away. It still waits for him until a quiet moment settles. Then whispers start.

_Yennefer is only tolerating you because of the baby._

_What will the baby think of you?_

_Stop thinking that something will happen with him. You fucked up one relationship already—_

“I’m alright,” Geralt shrugs, sliding his phone back into his pocket. It’s still vibrating. Jaskier still trying to work out what he would owe Geralt if he _did_ go to Temeria and kill Valdo Marx. Lambert watches him leave the kitchen, shuffling into his room to throw his bag and laptop down on to his bed. Within seconds, he hears the telltale sound of nails clipping on hardwood. The door to his room flies open and Roach bounds in, tail wagging so hard that her body whips from side to side. He crouches down to scratch her ears.

Whether she can sense the shadows too, he isn’t sure. But she does press kisses all over his face. It’s difficult for dark things to stalk through his mind when a dog is nearby, chasing them away.

Lambert isn’t in the kitchen or the living room when Geralt gets out of his room. A quick glance down the hallway shows him that the door to Lambert’s room is closed. Armed with a laptop and a notebook, he takes up a space in the living room, clearing through the last of the admin work for the garage. Orders have to be double-checked and invoices need to be sent out. Rotas for the next few weeks need to go up. It’s nice – having something to do. Too many days were lost to him just staring at a wall for hours on end, dimly aware that the world outside was slipping by.

His phone buzzes.

Catching a quick glance at the screen, he blinks at Vesemir’s name popping up. Geralt picks up the phone at the third ring, just as the call is about to drop. “Hey,” he says, sitting back against the couch. “What’s up?”

There’s a grunt of a laugh on the other end of the line. “I’m just calling to see how you are. Does something need to be up for that?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “No. You never call. You just usually...appear.”

“Appear?”

“Like you have this sense that something could be wrong, and you appear in our living room.”

Vesemir has keys to the apartment – keys that he wanted to give back to his boys, but ones that they wouldn’t take. This was Vesemir’s old space. And he was just as welcomed into it as they were. When Geralt’s descent started, Lambert and Eskel spent too much time trying to get Vesemir over to check on him. He can still remember the man lurking around the hallways and rooms; always under the guise of _checking in on the apartment_ , making sure that they hadn’t trashed the place.

Vesemir chuckles. “Someone has to look after you pups.” There’s a long pause. “So, how are you?”

And that seems to the question of the year. Roach jumps up on to the couch, twirling around in a circle before settling against Geralt’s side. He sets his hand on her flank, his fingers disappearing into the thick fur there. Geralt sighs. “Fine, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I’m working.”

“Just because you’re working doesn’t mean that you’re fine.” Vesemir sighs. “Trust me, son. I spent too long burying my head into the books in that office, ignoring things that I didn’t want to deal with.”

Geralt’s throat bobs. “But where do I even start dealing with it?” he asks lowly.

Vesemir’s end of the line goes quiet again for a moment. He sighs again, a tired-sounding thing. “You’re helping Yenn with the baby, aren’t you? You’re stepping up to an odd situation that most people probably would have tucked tail and run from.”

And he’s thankful that Vesemir isn’t actually stalking the shadows of his apartment. Geralt’s face flushes red. “I couldn’t run from that,” he says quietly.

“You’ve been dealt a lot in the past couple of weeks,” Vesemir replies. “And you’re stripping it all back and dealing with things as they pop up. You’re doing well, son. But don’t forget to look after you.”

Geralt swallows. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not in my room anymore.”

Vesemir grunts a laugh. “Well, that’s good. But I meant that you’re still blessed with your youth. You shouldn’t be spending these years wallowing just because life’s been dealing you a few tough cards lately.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“That’s up to you,” Vesemir says, “but just make sure that you’re okay.”

They say their goodbyes almost an hour later, with Geralt’s laptop now sitting closed in front of him and work long forgotten. The thought of trying to open it up, to start pouring through paperwork for something that doesn’t really need to be done for a few days, it doesn’t sit right with him.

Roach twitches in her sleep, lifting her head to set her chin against his thigh. Geralt combs his fingers through her fur, scratching behind her ears. The dog hums, tilting her head to the side to get the spot she likes.

His phone sits on his other lap, black screen staring up at him.

**_Geralt: When will you be finished your gig?_ **

He isn’t sure if the reply does actually take a while to come through, or if time itself is distorted and drags out as he stares down at his phone. But when his screen lights up with a notification, the phone is back in his hand within seconds.

_Jaskier: Aiming for 11, but the owner of the bar might want me to hang around._

_Jaskier: Why?_

Geralt’s thumbs hover over the screen for a second.

**_Geralt: Do you want to go somewhere? I’ll drive._ **

Before he can even think about rephrasing the sentence, or even deleting it entirely, he sends it. Waiting for a reply is just as painful as the last time.

_Jaskier: Sure!_

* * *

He catches the tail-end of Jaskier’s gig. The crowd is bigger here than in the last gig he went to. Something must be in the man’s voice. People sway with every note that comes out of his throat, every word he sings is being sung back at him. Geralt keeps close to the door, just watching.

When Jaskier finishes, he takes him almost five minutes to get off the stage, pack away his instruments and equipment, and meet Geralt. As he’s walking towards him, Jaskier smiles – not one that he wears on stage, one that takes over his entire face, crinkling his eyes. “Hey!”

Geralt lifts up his keys. “Where to?”

Jaskier shrugs his shoulders. His guitar is slung over one, packed away in its case, ready to head home. A few people towards the outskirts of the audience eye them. Geralt’s ears twitch at the muffled conversations; wondering should they come over and talk to the singer. Geralt nods to them. “Do you want to stay for a bit?”

Jaskier looks over. The people who would have wandered over if given the slightest permission suddenly pale, shuffling on their feet and giggling between themselves. It’s mostly women, Geralt notices. One of the braver of the group shuffles over, an album outstretched. “We’re really sorry, but would you mind...?”

Jaskier offers them a smile, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t mind at all,” he says. Watching this, watching him suddenly switch to being someone else, is strange. Geralt leans back against the wall, trying to fuse back into it. This is Jaskier’s domain, making idle conversation with total strangers, laughing with them during their flushed attempts to tell a story. When he’s done with the small group, he turns back to Geralt, waving him over. “We should go now, before others start asking,” he says quietly.

* * *

They go to an overlook jutting out of one of the Kaedwen hills. A couple of other cars are there, spread out, with people either inside them or splayed out on the hood.

It was a joint idea. _Being around a lot of people is great, but I always feel so tired afterwards,_ Jaskier had said, setting his head against the headrest. _Do you know any quiet places? Preferably without hoards of people?_

His guitar lies in its case in the back, totally forgotten about as Jaskier’s fingers try to smoothen out the small calluses that are forming after the gig. The southern cities stretch out in front of them, a glow of nightlife light trying to fight off the ink-black sky.

Jaskier sighs. “I’ve never been up here,” he says, leaning forward to look at the view.

Geralt’s keys stay in the ignition; the small hum of the radio drifting between them. “I used to come up here a lot,” he says after a time.

“You don’t anymore?”

Geralt shakes his head. Without the radio playing softly in the background, he doesn’t think that the silence would be too friendly to him. He’s lived a lot of the past couple of weeks in silence – at one point even forgetting the sound of his own voice. He didn’t have the energy or want to do anything, even talk; no matter how hard the others tried to lure something like words out of him.

But Geralt lifts his chin, folding his arms over his chest. “I used to come up here with someone,” he says simply. And he leaves it at that.

Jaskier’s quiet for a moment. “Your ex?”

It’s not that the word itself stings. But he does find himself flinching slightly at it. Nothing is going to come out of his throat in any form of word, so he nods.

If he keeps looking out at the cityscape, maybe talking will be easier.

Because he doesn’t really want to talk about Yenn. Or the baby. This is Jaskier’s time. And he won’t have the different segments of his life start bleeding into each other. Not if he can help it, at least.

Jaskier hums. “It’s a nice place,” he says, looking around at the other cars. Some have packed up and moved away. Others have taken their place. A few couples and groups of friends get out and wander near the edge, sitting on some benches and railings put there.

Whether Jaskier wants to follow them, he doesn’t make any moves to.

“How long have you been playing music?” Geralt forces out instead.

Jaskier looks over to him. “Oh, most of my life, I guess.” He sits back, angling himself into the groove of the car seat and the door. “I went to Oxenfurt and studied music there.”

Geralt’s brow lifts to his hairline. “Oxenfurt? As in...?”

Jaskier clicks his fingers. “The very same. Graduated with honours.” And he lifts his chin in a proud look. One that doesn’t last long as he laughs quietly, almost to himself. “I didn’t really care for it. The theory of music, anyway. I just wanted to write songs and perform them in front of people.”

“And make something of yourself?” Geralt asks.

“I could have been things,” he lifts a shoulder, “just not anything I wanted to be.” Jaskier stares off to the side before quickly pulling out his phone. His fingers fly over the screen. Geralt has to swallow a laugh when he realises that Jaskier is writing down what he just said.

“And what could you have been?”

Jaskier looks up from his phone. The bright, white light casts shadows over his face, distorting the shape entirely. He rolls his eyes. “Just...things.”

Usually, he wouldn’t chase it. But the slight blush spreading across the man’s face ignites a hunt. Geralt angles himself towards the man. “What? Your parents are rich or something?”

The blush only darkens. “Yeah, actually,” he says quietly. It’s almost lost, even to the radio’s quiet hum. But Geralt catches it. When the other man stays quiet, Jaskier sighs. “Father-dearest owns a lot of shares in some tech company in Lettenhove.”

Geralt cocks his head. “So when you say you could have been things?”

“He wanted me to take an interest,” Jaskier nods. When he slips his phone back into his jacket pocket, he sighs. “I told him that I didn’t care about managing companies or attending board meetings. And he...didn’t take it well.”

“What about your mum?”

“She’s on his side,” Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “Or whoever’s side will make the arguing stop, I guess.”

And it sounds too familiar. He remembers the all-out war waged between Lambert and his own parents about moving into their current apartment. Lambert could be living very comfortably right now, if not for his want to stay with his friends – _brothers_ , he made sure to remind.

Geralt hums. “If it’s any consolation,” he says after a time, “you make a better musician than a board manager.”

Jaskier has the gall to look affronted for a moment, even placing his hand over his heart, but it quickly dissolves into a laughing fit. “Thanks,” he says, smile still lingering on his lips. “Now if you could convince my father to stop hounding me to reconsider, that would be great.”

Geralt shrugs. “I’ve already said I would kill Valdo Marx on your behalf. What’s another name on my list?”

Jaskier laughs again, and Geralt finds himself liking the sound of it. He’s even tempted to shut the radio off completely just to keep the sound around, untarnished by anything else. Jaskier’s eyes crinkle. “Would I owe you for any of this?”

“Valdo Marx is free,” Geralt says. “I’ll have to think about your father, but he might be free too.”

“Two hits costing me nothing?” Jaskier marvels, crossing his arms and leaning a shoulder against the back of his seat. Facing Geralt completely, he laughs again. “I should probably make use of that offer. I do want a lot of people dead.”

And he isn’t long how much of their time is spent like that. Talking, laughing. Even the brief moments of silence that lapses between them seem to slip away quickly. Geralt glances down at his phone. It’s well past midnight. And not an ounce of sleep seems to pull at either of them.

“Why didn’t you and your ex work out?” Jaskier asks suddenly. The question itself sits in the air between them. Jaskier clears his throat. “You mentioned it before, and I...I don’t want it come off as weird, or anything, but I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to date you.”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. It doesn’t’ even hurt anymore when he catches the flesh between his teeth, quietly chewing, mulling over his response. But shadows are starting to creep in, and whispers begin to hiss into the shell of his ear. “We,” he sighs, looking anywhere else but the other side of the car. “We just...didn’t. We wanted different things.”

Jaskier nods. “Alright,” he says quietly.

If that’s to be that, then it’s fine. He could leave it there. Jaskier is offering him an out. Sometimes couples don’t work out, and that’s okay. Eskel’s words course through his mind every day. _Sometimes things just go to shit._

“You don’t have to talk about it at all if you don’t want to,” Jaskier says quietly. He lets out a tight laugh. “Don’t feel like you need to tell me something just because I tell you everything.”

But, he sets his head against the headrest, he wants to talk about it. If Lambert or Eskel or even _Vesemir_ can’t drag him into a therapist’s office to talk about it all, then this is probably the next best thing.

They’ve tried to help him in the past. They know what happened. They know _how_ it happened. They saw the fallout of it. But despite their best efforts, Lambert and Eskel have the emotional capacity of a brick wall. And Vesemir left the city to get away from stresses and his old life. Geralt can’t bring himself to drive out to the man’s cottage, barge through his door, and talk about how shit his life has been lately.

He can still feel Jaskier looking at the side of his face. The city stretches out in front of them, boroughs knitted neatly together, lit by light and a hum of activity.

“My ex,” Geralt says slowly. It’s not that he wants to drag it out. He wants the words past his teeth as quickly as possible. It just doesn’t help that his throat wants to close up and keep them down. Geralt squares his jaw. “My ex is pregnant.”

And for a long, tense moment, Jaskier is quiet. After a minute, he finally speaks. “Is it yours?” At Geralt’s glare, Jaskier holds up his hands. “Just asking,” he says.

“Yeah,” Geralt grits. His fingers tap against the steering wheel, for lack of anything else to do. If he had his cigarettes and lighter with him, he’d strike one up. But with a baby tumbling into his life, he made the decision to stop smoking. And he’s doing well. He hasn’t had the urge to smoke, he just needs something to do with his damn hands.

For the first time since meeting the other man, Jaskier is quiet. The world itself almost seems to slip away as the outside of Geralt’s vision starts to blacken and thin into a tunnel. One hand moves to his thigh, his fingers pressing into the flesh there. He can still feel it. He’s still here.

“I know it’s probably not the best time to bring it up, but,” Jaskier says after a time, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for kissing you, that night we met. You were kind enough to bring me home after just meeting me, and...I’m sorry. You mentioned something when I got out of the car; you had just gotten out of a relationship too. And I thought about it for a bit. A while, actually.”

Geralt’s fingers dig deeper into his thigh.

Jaskier draws in a breath. “You looked so sad. You laughed at whatever jokes I made and you spoke to me for a while, but underneath it all you just...looked so hollow.”

It’s then that Geralt’s distantly aware of the car shifting. Jaskier leans over slightly, reaching out for his wrist. Even though the whispers are getting louder and the shadows darker, he glances down at Jaskier’s fingers hovering just an inch away from his wrist. “You’re breathing too quickly,” he says lowly. His voice is nothing more than a rumble inside of the car.

With a grunt wrangling its way out of his throat, Geralt hopes that maybe that and the stare he’s locked on to Jaskier’s fingers will make the man help.

And he does.

The first touch of skin has him wincing. It’s too much, even though Jaskier’s grip on his wrist is gentle. He doesn’t even wrap his fingers all the way around – a hold that Geralt could get out of very easily if he wanted to. “You’ve been dealing with a lot, haven’t you?” Jaskier asks. The sound of his voice fights through the chorus against the shell of his ear.

Geralt lets his eyes close.

_Breathe._

His chest is tight, squeezing out all of the air inside and not letting anything in.

“It’s alright,” that soft voice is back again. “You’re alright.”

And he is. Slowly, whatever has had a maw around him slowly loosens. A rush of breath floods his lungs. He opens his eyes and sees tears starting to dampen the thighs of his jeans. His gaze flickers over to his wrist, still resting there, but with ring-adorned fingers holding it.

When Geralt glances over to the other side of the car, Jaskier’s close. There’s still a sliver of space between them, enough for Geralt not to feel smothered.

He swallows. “I’m sorry,” he rasps, throat clagging and struggling to open.

Jaskier’s looking at him, head slightly cocked. His eyes are softened, mouth thinned slightly. He flashes a small, reassuring smile. “No need to be sorry,” he replies. “You’ve experienced a few of my meltdowns. Only fair I get to see yours too.”

The word sits with him for a moment. Meltdown. Because, if he sat in front of a therapist, that’s what they would call it. They would saddle him with terms and treatment plans and force words out of him. But despite the fact that shadows are keen to stalk him whenever the sun goes down, he prefers talking with friends. Lambert and Eskel do their best. Vesemir will wrangle _something_ out of him within a few minutes of sitting with the elder.

And then there’s Jaskier, who chased off the shadows by just sitting there.

Holding his wrist.

Looking down at where they’re joined, he blinks at where Jaskier’s fingers are. His index and middle fingers rest against Geralt’s pulse point.

“Have you,” he clears his throat, “have you dealt with...this before?”

Jaskier hums. “A few friends of mine in college had some mental health problems. One of them had a panic disorder. She got attacks all the time. I knew that if I was going to be her friend, and be around her every day, I might as well learn how to help her deal with them.”

And Jaskier’s hand slowly retracts.

It takes every ounce of willpower in Geralt’s bones not to reach out and put it back to where it was.

Jaskier keeps his gaze focused on him. “Are you feeling okay now?” he asks slowly. “Do you know where you are? Who I am?”

Geralt nods.

When they decide to leave, Jaskier’s ramblings about his time in Oxenfurt slowly gets drowned out by whispers. They’re vicious now, growling into his ear and circling thoughts around his brain.

_He won’t stay if he knows about the baby._

_You and Yennefer are too entangled together now; and even she doesn’t want you around._

_Your only link to her is that baby._

_How are you meant to have him be around if he knows how unstable you are?_

For the first time in a long time, he thinks to himself, to the voices in his head: **shut the fuck up.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *is the author of this fic*  
> Me: *is writing the last few paragraphs*  
> Still Me: *gasp* They touched!


	6. Chapter 6

“At least she told you about the sprog and wants you in its life. I know men who’ve been left in the dark for years.”

Mousesack’s ears are constantly to the wind, picking up all sorts of talk from people about other people. How much of what he hears is true, no one is entirely sure. But what Geralt _has_ learned is that there’s no point in telling Mousesack anything; because, chances are, he already knows.

Geralt picks at his lunch, pushing the last slivers of salad to the side of his plate. He tries not to glare at the man. Some part of him knows that he’s right. It’s something that has been playing with him ever since Yenn told him.

 _Why_ did she tell him?

She made it pretty clear that she didn’t want him even looking in her direction anymore. They could be within the same room for more than five minutes without something kicking off.

And then a handful of weeks later, she saddles him with news of a baby.

Mousesack sits back against his chair, wiping the corners of his mouth. Lunch with the man makes for good company, and Mousesack always has ties to the nicer restaurants in Cintra. He’s dressed for it, in a navy pinstripe suit and neat hair. It makes Geralt’s bomber jacket and worn jeans look like he was found out in the gutters outside.

But at least his hair has been wrangled back into a bun. If anything else, he managed to take a shower this morning. And if that’s the only thing he achieves out of today, then he’s going to go to sleep pretty damn proud of himself.

Mousesack drums his fingers against the table, thoughtful. “When is she due, anyway?”

Geralt sets his fork to the side. “Beginning of autumn,” he replies. And the date is ambling towards him.

Mousesack takes a long sip of water, milling the date around in his head. “She’s going to spend both the holidays _and_ summer pregnant,” he says, a small smile curling his lip. “She’ll fucking hate it.”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “It’s not like we planned it,” he says simply, pushing the plate away.

The other man lifts his chin. “I can’t imagine you did,” he replies. He scratches his chin. “Though, you’re not the worst set of people I can imagine being parents. I know couples who did that shit on purpose and they aren’t suited to raising a kid.”

At that, Geralt lifts a brow. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“You’re helping her with everything, aren’t you?” Mousesack asks. “You’re going to her appointments and planning out what you’ll both do when the sprog is born?”

Geralt nods.

Mousesack holds up a hand. “Not bad parents,” he says simply. When a server wanders over to take their plates, the man glances over. “Do you want any dessert?”

He checks his phone. Eskel and Lambert know Mousesack. They even wanted to come when the man wandered into the garage, his suit and polished shoes and quaffed hair making him stand out, asking if Geralt wanted to come out for lunch. _Just for a chat_ , he said with a smirk, already knowing what he needed to know and what he needed to ask.

Geralt shakes his head. “I have to head back,” he says simply.

Mousesack nods, slipping the server what they owe. Geralt catches it out of the corner of his eye, before saddling the man with a stern glower.

He holds up his hands. “ _I_ invited _you_. You can buy me a drink next time we’re out together.”

* * *

_Jaskier : How are you feeling today?_

He’s been staring at his phone for what seems like hours. The office is quiet; a faint hum of music playing from the nearby radio, Roach burying snores into her bedding across the room. The noise of machinery in the garage outside slips away into a dim muffle.

His fingers hover over the screen. The other man has texted him every day without fail. Not all of his texts have been replied to. Geralt has a life of his own, managing what seems to be hundreds of things at a time. But he does open each text, reading it, trying not to smile at how the man rambles incessantly about nothing at all.

Last night comes back to him like a flood. The cold wave of panic that crested and threatened to drag him under. The firm, warm hold of Jaskier’s hand around his wrist, his voice in his ear.

He’s never been able to stop an attack before. They’re vicious things, waiting for their moment to stop stalking and pounce. Each and every time, they grab hold of his ankles and drag him under.

Not once has it ever stopped in its tracks, backed off, slunk away back into the shadows.

**Geralt : Alright. Had lunch with a friend. Back at work. **

He pauses.

**Geralt : And thanks. For last night. Sorry you had to see that** _._

He sets his phone to the side. With the last of the week’s invoices sitting in front of him, splayed out on a computer screen, he goes back to sorting them out. A few of them are from Vesemir’s old contacts, asking for parts and repairs. Easy work that Eskel, Lambert, or Coën could have done in minutes. Others are a bit trickier.

When his phone buzzes, he has to stop himself from looking at it straight away.

_Jaskier : You met me mid-meltdown. It’s only fair that I see you have one too_

_Jaskier : Surely the quiet, surly look you’ve got going on isn’t a permanent thing, is it?_

_Jaskier : Not that I mind. It’s a good look_

His phone almost slips out of his hand completely when there’s a sharp knock rapped on the door. Looking up, Geralt spots Eskel through the small window panel in the door. The man nods back to the garage. _Come here_. His face is stern and tight.

Geralt gets up, wandering over to the door. Eskel doesn’t say anything as he walks back out to the garage. Coën is still working on an engine off to the side, earbuds in and none the wiser to anything going on within the building.

Lambert’s arms are folded tightly over his chest, standing by the open hood of a car he’s been working on for the past hour. When he catches sight of Geralt and Eskel, he strides over. “Just so you know,” he says quietly, just as Geralt passes. “I told her that you were busy and to fuck off.”

Geralt bristles.

Dressed in her Aedirn armour, she looks so out of place in Kaedwen; a fitted light grey suit with a stark violet button up. Against the grime and wrought iron of the garage, and the cracked cobblestone streets outside, Yennefer stands out. She has the lapels of her jacket pulled tight in front of her, a scarf shielding her chest and chin from the worst of the wind blowing up through the street.

Geralt swallows. “Hey,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What are you doing here?”

Because if she needs anything, she texts. On the rare occasion that they have to meet in person, Geralt goes to her.

He pales. “Is something wrong with the baby?—”

“—No,” Yennefer rushes. “No. No, they’re fine.” Her eyes flicker over to the garage. Geralt follows it. Lambert and Eskel still linger nearby, their feet rooted to the ground and arms folded. Lambert’s glower only sours when he catches Yenn’s gaze. When she turns back to Geralt, she clears her throat. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

At that, Lambert bristles. “Famous last words.” Even though the muttered words are almost lost to the sharp whine of drills and saws, Geralt’s head snaps around. Before he can say anything, Eskel grabs his arm and drags him away. They don’t go very far. The open layout of the garage means that even though they can work in their own corners, there’s nothing to separate the space at all. Months ago, conversations were hurled around the space. Laughs were shared and Coën always had music blaring.

It’s not ideal for the types of conversations Geralt has been having with Yennefer recently.

He gestures to the office. “Come with me.” She stays at his heel, bustling into the office and out of earshot of the others. When the door clicks shut behind them, Yenn sighs. “They’re right to be angry with me,” she breathes.

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “They’re just being...protective, I guess.”

Yennefer’s expression is utterly unreadable for a second. “Good,” she says lowly, before taking a seat at the other side of his desk. Geralt catches the back of his own chair, dragging it around to the side. Having Vesemir’s thick hardwood desk between them, seemingly spanning out towards the horizon, it doesn’t feel right.

They’re on top of having things sorted. A savings account for the baby had been approved a few days ago; portions of both of their salaries are going into it already. To the best of his knowledge, Yennefer has been going through websites for clothes and bassinets and pushchairs. As the pregnancy moves along, more things will pop up, and they’ll deal with it. But for now, they’re fine.

Yennefer crosses a leg over the other. “I know that,” she frowns, mulling over her words. “I know that us breaking up was really hard for you. You’re...not yourself. You seem a bit better now. I guess this,” she settles a hand over her middle, “must have helped. But when you seemingly dropped off the face of the world, I had to wonder.”

Geralt squares his jaw.

Yennefer runs fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. “The first time we spoke since breaking up, you didn’t seem like yourself. You looked so sad, so distant. Like a shell of someone I knew before.”

Jaskier’s voice suddenly echoes through his ears.

_You looked so sad. You laughed at whatever jokes I made and you spoke to me for a while, but underneath it all you just...looked so hollow._

She fumbles for something in her bag for a second. Then her hand outstretched, a small piece of card between her fingers. “A few friends of mine have gone to see her,” she says as Geralt takes the card, turning it over to read it. “She’s good, apparently.”

_A therapist._

Yennefer lifts a shoulder. “You don’t have to, but if you’re not feeling right, I think it would help you a lot if you spoke to someone.”

Geralt keeps his eyes on the card. “I’m feeling better,” he says simply.

Yennefer sighs. “I don’t doubt that you are,” she replies. “You look better. But what if you slip? What if I lose you again to whatever it was that had you hiding away from the world for weeks on end?”

 _It was something that **you** caused_, some vile voice in his head hisses at the woman. He’s quick to think of something else, to silence it. If he can keep it in his head, the words won’t tumble out of his mouth, and he won’t have to pick up the pieces of a shattered rekindling friendship.

Yennefer leans forward. Her hands rest on the table, but her fingers twitch. Wanting to reach out. She schools them to stay pinned to where they are. “You’re going to be in this baby’s life,” she says firmly. “I want you in it. I have no doubt in my mind that you’ll love this child, and that they will love you. But if some darkness is living in your head, I’m sorry, but I don’t want it near the baby.”

“Yenn-”

“-No, listen,” she holds up her hand, “you can still see them, and be with them, and be in their life. But I think that even you know that whatever it is that’s going on in your head right now isn’t good for anyone, let alone someone who’s going to be dependent on you.”

Something sits over them in the office. The world outside slips away unnoticed. It isn’t until Yennefer sighs, standing up from her seat, that Geralt realises his breathing has been stopping and starting for the past few minutes. “Just think about it. Please?”

And his eyes lock on to her hand, splayed over her middle. Whether she’s conscious of it or not, it doesn’t move.

* * *

**Geralt : Do you know of a Dr. Nenneke?**

_Jaskier : The shrink? Yeah, why?_

**Geralt : Do you know if she’s good?**

_Jaskier : I can’t imagine she’d be half the city’s therapist if she was shit_

_Jaskier : One of my friends went to her, I could ask for a review?_

_Jaskier : Why, are you thinking of going to her?_

At that, Geralt sets the phone to his ear and rings the man.

Jaskier picks up on the second ring. “Hey-”

“-My ex came to my work today,” Geralt lets out before his jaw can clamp shut. “She said that I should go and see someone. She didn’t want my _darkness_ around the baby.”

There’s a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line.

Jaskier takes a steady breath. “Would you hate me if I actually agreed with her?”

And he doesn’t quite know how to reply to that.

“I think you agree with her too,” Jaskier continues, too quickly for Geralt to even consider hanging up. “Somewhere in that head of your's there is still some trace of logic. It seems to be working overtime lately.”

A quiet moment settles over them. In a few in-person meetings and a series of texts, Jaskier seems to know how Geralt’s brain works better than he does. Or perhaps the other man just has the benefit of looking on from an outside perspective.

“This baby,” Jaskier starts, “you want to protect it and love it and be a dad to it, yeah?”

“Of course,” Geralt breathes.

“Even from your own demons?”

Geralt lets the words sit with him. He _does_ agree with Yenn. The thought of any shadows or whispers coming for that child sets his blood on fire. His hackles rise at the idea that something might even glance at a thing that small and innocent.

And if it’s living within him, in his brain, he needs it out.

He won’t have anything like that coming near his baby.

Geralt doesn’t answer the question, but his silence seems to be taken as one anyway. Jaskier makes a sound in the back of his throat. In the background, Geralt hears the clatter of plates and cutlery. He must be at home. “I’ll call my friend Priscilla,” he says, presumably shovelling some food into his mouth, since his words are now muffled slightly. “I’ll pass along her review and then you can decide.”

Geralt’s stomach grumbles. The faint smell of roasting meat and vegetables drifts through the apartment. Distantly, he can hear Eskel and Lambert arguing among themselves in the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Geralt says after a time.

Jaskier huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s alright. You’ve been helping me over the past couple of weeks. I think I should start returning the favour.”

There’s a sharp knock on his bedroom door. It’s slightly ajar, and arching his neck, Geralt catches a quick glimpse of Eskel standing out in the hall. The other man’s mouth opens, about to say something, but his brows knit together when he spots the phone pressed to Geralt’s ear.

Geralt waves him away. “Hey, I have to go,” he says quickly.

Jaskier hums. “Yeah, some guys I’m playing a gig with tonight will be here soon.”

When they’ve hung up and Geralt’s phone is flung somewhere on to his bed, swallowed by the mounds of sheets, Eskel arches an eyebrow at him. “Yennefer?” he asks.

Geralt shakes his head, leading both of them back to the kitchen. “Just a friend,” he says simply.

Lambert places the last of the dishes on to their dining table. A roast joint of beef sits among a collection of vegetables. While most of their chores within the apartment in on rotation, Geralt does look forward to days where Lambert cooks. Sliding into his usual seat, he ignores the pairs of inquisitive looks locked on to him.

“You don’t have any friends,” Lambert says slowly, gesturing to both himself and Eskel, “except for us.”

Eskel cocks his head. His gaze is scrutinising, even as he and Lambert take their usual places and load their plates with food. Something changes in the man’s face. “It’s not that guy you met a few weeks ago, is it?”

Lambert’s eyes widen. “What guy? When?” he says around a mouthful of roast beef. He turns to Geralt. “You met a guy?”

A warm colour threatens to wash over his face. He keeps his eyes down, focused on the plate in front of him.

But Eskel leans forward, trying to catch his eye. “Is it?”

 _Just take your plate and go,_ something whispers.

The urge is there. He could just go, and neither of them would follow. They would give him space, let him come down from whatever it is that’s trying to squeeze his throat shut.

“He’s a guy who needed a lift home a few weeks ago,” he says instead. Lifting a shoulder, Geralt goes back to eating.

Eskel makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Well,” he says slowly, “good to know that you two kept in contact.”

Lambert’s mouth opens, something lingers on the tip of his tongue. If his upturned lip is anything to go by, a swift kick underneath the table kills it.

* * *

The city isn’t starved of parks. It’s hard not to walk a few streets without being able to go into one. Some of them are accommodating children, with intricate climbing frames in the centre and swing sets and seesaws. Others are for the runners of the city, with dirt trails encircling small lakes.

There are only a few parks that are for dogs. The different neighbourhoods all lead into each other, but you can tell when you’ve left one and entered another. Buildings and shops lining the streets will differ in their architecture. Once he parks his car just outside the dog park, Roach whines. “Okay, okay,” he says, leaning over to open the door for her. “Wait a damn minute, would you?”

Roach is already gone, breaking out into a sprint towards the gates of the park. A couple of other dogs and their owners are already inside, most of them rushing around after each other. Roach might hate the two friends Geralt has, but she has plenty of her own.

When Geralt gets into the park, bundling his jacket around himself to stave off the chill, Roach is already chasing another darker-gold retriever around. He wanders further into the park, perching on the edge of a bench. Roach’s lead is coiled up in his hand. He doesn’t need it. Roach might bark and lift her lip in warning, but despite whatever Lambert has to say, she wouldn’t actually bite anyone.

He isn’t sure how long he stays there. People come and go from the park. No one really pays him any mind. The benefits of having a dog is that not a lot of people actually talk to you – they’re more interested in the dog. Roach plays with her friend until it’s time for them to leave. When he’s pulled away by his owner, Roach trots over, her head and tail bowed low.

“He seemed nice,” Geralt says sympathetically, letting the retriever perched her chin on his lap.

“Geralt?”

The voice beside him seems familiar. Glancing over, Geralt spots Jaskier walking up the dirt path running through the park. A bright smile spreads over the man’s faces. Something that only grows when he spots the dog by his side. “You didn’t say that you had a dog!” He holds out his hand. “So how old is she—”

“—Don’t touch Roach,” Geralt grumbles. The retriever watches Jaskier slowly retract his hand, before settling her chin on to Geralt’s knee. The retriever keeps her eyes locked on Jaskier, though, huffing when the man takes up a seat beside Geralt.

He stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. “Not a fan of people, is she?” he asks, regarding the dog for a minute. “Strange. Golden retrievers are such happy dogs.”

“Not Roach,” he says simply.

“If you saddled her with a name like _Roach_ , I’m not surprised,” Jaskier replies. The dog slowly patters over to him, nosing at his pockets. A habit she’s had since she was a puppy when, Lambert desperate to get the dog to _stop fucking biting his ankles_ , used to stuff treats into his pockets in some attempt to win her over.

All it did was teach her to stuff her snout into pockets and paw at people’s legs.

Eskel partly blames Lambert for the shirt-peeing incident. _If you didn’t get her so obsessed with clothes maybe it wouldn’t have happened!_

Even years later, it’s a memory that pulls a small huff of a laugh out of Geralt. He reaches out and scratches the back of Roach’s ears.

Jaskier talks. A lot. It’s a constant hum of noise that Geralt can feel some part of his brain trying to phase out. But when Roach’s ears prick at the sight of another one of her friends trotting over, the dog bolts away, and he’s left with no option but to look at Jaskier.

The man talks about something or other that happened at a recent gig. Lounging against the back of the bench, an arm strewn over the back of it, he looks like he could be at home. Geralt listens. It’s a strange thing; having someone talk so much. Lambert and Eskel can, but he could argue that it’s more _fighting_ than anything else.

“There’s a place nearby that does good coffee,” Jaskier says after a while, nodding to a nearby street. When Geralt blinks, Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “I never got to thank you properly for the other night. For bringing me home, that is. Not...the other thing.”

And with everything that has happened since then, it’s remarkable to him that he forgot.

 _Jaskier kissing him_.

But now with the memory scratched, suddenly wisps of cigarette smoke and whiskey curl underneath his nose, coating the roof of his mouth.

It must take him too long to reply. Jaskier’s expression goes from its usual friendliness to something entirely different. He rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, um, I’m sorry about that. I was drunk, and I’d had a night, and I shouldn’t have.”

“Do they accept dogs?”

The flow of words out of Jaskier’s mouth stops for a moment. A puzzled look flashes over his face before he realises. “The cafe? Um, I think so?”

Geralt looks out into the park. Roach is nearby, never one to wander too far away. With a sharp, piercing whistle, the golden retriever bounds back to his side. Geralt nods. “Yeah, okay.” He stands.

Jaskier looks up at him, eyes slightly widened. Within seconds, he scrambles to his feet. “Alright, then,” he smiles, leading them out of the park. Roach trots by Geralt’s side, keeping an eye on the man walking with them. Even without her leash tied, she knows to stay close. The streets aren’t that crowded with people, with the lunch rush now waded back into their buildings to continue on with work.

The coffee shop isn’t far away. It’s a small thing, taking up a sliver of space between two larger stores. There’s some seating outside, and Geralt notices dogs and their owners taking up some of it. Roach’s ears prick at the sight of the dogs. Geralt’s fingers brush her head. _Stay_.

Jaskier goes inside to get their drinks, already fishing his wallet out of his jacket pocket. “It’s on me,” he says, already half-way through the door. There’s a free table off to the side of the small outdoor area. The street is quiet enough, with a small cool breeze drafting up. A few other people huddled together warm their hands with their cups, burying their noses into their scarves as they talk to each other. Though Roach takes up a dutiful perch by Geralt’s side, she keeps an eye on the couple of dogs nearby. Most of them are lying down, coiled around themselves at their owners’ feet.

Geralt’s fingers brush the crown of Roach’s head.

Jaskier suddenly appears with their drinks, setting them down on the table. “Here you go,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite Geralt. Two coffees, one black and with a small bit of sugar, while the other is laced with cream and sweeteners. Jaskier sets his hands around his own cup, taking a tentative sip. “So,” he says, “how have you been?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “Alright.”

One of Jaskier’s brows rises. “Is that a Geralt- _I’m alright_ , or an actual _alright_?”

“I’m alright.”

The other man buries a huff into his cup. “Sure.” He doesn’t sound entirely convinced. And why should he be? Geralt can only imagine what he looks like, with his hair somewhat tamed back into a bun, days-old scruff scattered over his jaw. He’s sure even his under eyes have started to darken. Sleep has been coming to him, but staying asleep is difficult. He wakes in the night to nothing but an empty room. Roach always buries herself into his side or his leg. The warmth from the dog, the assurance that something is there to look after him, it helps.

Jaskier hums. “Listen, I really did want to thank you,” he says quietly, smoothing his thumb along the outside of the mug, “I know I’ve said that a lot but, I’m okay now. I think I’m done with having meltdowns at three in the morning.” His laugh is tight.

Geralt drums his fingers on the table. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says quietly, almost lost to a sharp wind that barrels up the street.

Jaskier nods, mostly to himself. “Still, it’s nice that I met you.” He takes a measured sip of his coffee. “A lot of my friends are Valdo’s friends too and, well, I didn’t want those kinds of people in my life. After that night I realised that they’re all just as bad as him.”

“How so?”

Jaskier scoffs. “All vying for his attention, just so they can get a foothold in the music scene.” He looks out on to the street, but his eyes focus on nothing in particular. “I suppose that’s what I did too, I guess. God knows I didn’t stay with him for his _personality_.”

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh. For all that he knows about Valdo Marx, which admittedly isn’t a lot, he has heard rumours about the man. And they’re not exactly favourable. “You seem happier,” Geralt comments.

“You didn’t know me before the roof though,” Jaskier points out.

“No, I didn’t. But the guy on the roof was pretty cool,” Geralt replies, “and the guy sitting here now is alright.”

“ _Alright_?” Jaskier makes a face. “I’ll take it, but if we’re going to stay friends then I might as well start working on getting up to _Amazing_.”

“Who said we were friends?”

“You’ve seen me breakdown more than twice,” Jaskier sets his coffee down, “and I’ve seen one from you. We’re practically best friends at this point.”

And it sits with him for a minute. When Yennefer left, a schism cracked through his life. On one plateau were Yenn, and every single person who knew the two of them. It was always a strange thing; when a couple breaks up, who do you side with? Who do you side with when neither has done anything wrong, but they refuse to talk to each other. Over the past couple of weeks, the plates have been sliding back together again; pulled in near by an unborn life.

The friends he had kept in his life are at home; men who he’s known since they were barely able to walk.

And here’s Jaskier. A new person trying to claw his way in.

Jaskier’s eyes level with his, keeping contact. When he cocks his head, a small line pulls at his lips. “Listen, I, uh,” he lets out a breathless laugh, “I know that you got a lot of stuff going on in your life right now, but, I’m here for you. I know you probably got other people that you’ve known for longer, but, you seem like a good person. And I don’t like the idea of you struggling with stuff by yourself.”

A lump claws its way up Geralt’s throat. He swallows. “I know. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this was late! With all that's going on in the world, I felt very overwhelmed with just about anything. Even when I was okay to start writing again, I got a bad stomach flu lol But here's an extra long chapter x
> 
> (We're dragging out this slow burn fic for a while kids, strap in and grab some snacks)


	7. Chapter 7

_I don’t like the idea of you struggling with stuff by yourself._

The words whirl around his head for days on end. Even when he finds himself sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a long, grey hallway, something whispers over his shoulder. He looks and finds nothing there, but a wall decorated sparsely with framed mundane prints. A nearby clock tolls out every minute he’s spent waiting, hoping that someone will come out and tell him what to do.

Until then, Geralt buries his fists into his pockets, sitting in on himself. Looking down at his boots, he focuses on the scuffed toes. Nenneke’s office isn’t far from the garage. Coën seemed fine to do whatever office work he left behind in order to walk here. But the walk seemed to stretch on for leagues. Every step he took towards the offices, the more his heart started to tremble within his chest. The thought of cracking his mind open, letting a stranger in, it didn’t sit right with him.

_Then talk to someone you know. Eskel, Lambert, Jaskier. Any of them._

And that didn’t sit right either. They would pity him. He could always see it in their eyes.

“Geralt?”

He lifts his head just in time to see an older woman standing at the portal of a door. She cradles a notebook and a clipboard in her arm. When Geralt swallows, the woman offers him a small smile. “Would you like to come in?”

His tongue sits heavy in his mouth. He’s never been good at talking, particularly to strangers. Words stick in his throat, and even when he opens his mouth to loosen some of them, he frowns when nothing comes out.

The woman’s smile warms. “It’s alright. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea and we’ll have a chat about anything you like. Sound good?”

Geralt swallows. “Yeah,” he rasps. “That sounds good.”

* * *

“So how was it? Not that you have to talk about it or anything. You don’t have to. It’s completely up to you. What you say to a therapist is your business.”

Jaskier continues to ramble, hauling the last of his equipment out of the bar and into the street. Geralt twirls his car keys around in his hand. He offered to help, but Jaskier being Jaskier waved him off. _I’ve been doing it myself for years_ , he said. With his guitar case slung over his shoulder, and the last of his cables coiled and sitting above his amp, the barkeep shuts the door behind them.

Once the stream of words flowing out of Jaskier’s mouth seems to hit a natural break, Geralt lifts a shoulder. “It was fine,” he says simply. Because it was. True to her word, most of their hour-long session was just talking about nothing at all. He told her about where he worked, and who with. She’s kind. She has kind eyes. He can say that about her. She isn’t what she thought she’d be; some personification of the voices in his head that blame him for everything that has happened. Something with a grotesque grimacing face, growling at him that it’s _his fault_.

Instead, she offered to fill the silence when Geralt’s words stopped coming. When his throat began to tremble and close, when the back of his eyes started to sting and water. She talked about the mundane – how cold the days had suddenly become, did he have any plans for the winter holidays, even though it was still a few weeks away. And it was nice.

She even coaxed a small laugh out of him with a story about her children being gremlins.

Jaskier regards him for a moment before he nods. “Good,” he says after a time. “I hope that she’s making you feel comfortable. Nothing worse than a weird therapist.”

“Speaking from experience?” Geralt asks, opening the trunk of his car and helping Jaskier put his stuff in.

“Unfortunately,” Jaskier says sullenly. He keeps his hand around the neck of his guitar case. The amps and cables and stands, he can replace those. But he keeps his guitar on him at all times. It’s something Geralt has picked up about him. The guitar will even sit in the front with them. With the last of Jaskier’s equipment in, Geralt closes the trunk. The other man wanders over to the passenger seat, sliding in without hesitation. Geralt palms his keys and follows.

Post-gig Jaskier is slowly becoming his favourite. There’s a sheen of sweat stretching across his brow, and his cheeks are flushed red. His hair, usually swooped into place, has strands sticking to his forehead. A faint hint of musk wafts off of him, but among it are traces of chamomile and honey and other things that he must use. It’s a smell that’s slowly embedding itself into the fabric of Geralt’s car.

Jaskier sets his head against the headrest and loosens a long breath. Every ounce of tension he’s carried through the day leaves with it.

It’s not a long drive to Jaskier’s house. The roads are quieter than usual. Most of the city’s nightlife has already flooded in.

“How did the gig go?” he asks. Even though both of them are happy to sit in silence, even with the radio humming soft tracks in the background, he finds himself wanting to know about Jaskier’s day.

The other man runs his fingers through his hair. “Good!” he says, drumming his fingers on the neck of his guitar case. “A good crowd always makes for a good night.”

“No one threatened to throw their fries at you, then?”

“That was literally one time,” Jaskier says sternly, glancing out on to the street.

He’s only ever seen Jaskier perform twice; when he’s been lured out of his apartment by people wanting him to leave his dark thoughts behind. And those nights have been some of the best nights he’s had in a while. He still thinks about them, sometimes, when he feels himself starting to teeter backwards.

They clear each street too quickly. Jaskier recounts him of his night, of each song that he sung and how he felt it went. “I thought I was a bit pitchy at the start but I didn’t get a chance to warm up beforehand.”

“I’m sure the crowd was too drunk to even notice,” Geralt comments, “anything would have sounded good.”

He can feel Jaskier’s head snap over to glare at him. “ _Geralt_.”

Jaskier’s house comes into view too quickly. Pulling up and parking outside, Geralt follows the other man out, pulling his things from the trunk of his car. Geralt hauls the amp out and sets in on to the sidewalk. The street is quiet enough, with a hum of music drifting up from a nearby house to the end of the street.

Jaskier adjusts the case strap on his shoulder. “Do you, um.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Do you want to come in?”

Geralt’s eyes flicker to the house behind him. It’s a usual Redanian townhouse; sitting among dozens exactly like it, but for some reason, even with its red stone exterior being just like the others, this house just has Jaskier’s aura glowing from it. The metal railings up the stairs have small lights coiled around it, potted blooming plants sit between each rail.

Jaskier watches him, waiting for an answer. Geralt nods. “Yeah, yeah sure.”

A smile breaks out on Jaskier’s face; one that crinkles his eyes and rounds his cheeks. He quickly gathers coils of cables and threads them on to his arm. “You can manage that can’t you?” he nods to the amp.

Geralt nods.

The inside of Jaskier’s house is everything he expected it to be. Even the first scent he’s met with just as the door closes behind him reminds him of the first night; a swirling musk of damask rose and a hint of something sweeter, like vanilla. The hallway is dimly lit, with boxes full of books and trinkets stacked at the foot of the stairs. Jaskier looks over his shoulder. “Shit, sorry about the mess,” he says, moving a box to the side with his foot. “My friend is moving back in and all of this is her stuff.”

Geralt nods. “It’s fine.” There were times where his room looked like a bomb hit it. On one of the few occasions that he did manage to leave it, it was always cleaner when he stepped back inside. He wasn’t stupid; he knew Eskel would sneak in to collect some clothes splayed on the back of his chair or on the floor and put them in the laundry. He collected the dishes and cups, emptied the trash, and kept Geralt’s bed made. Now that he thinks of it, he never said thank you to Eskel for doing all of it. When his mind was dark, when terrible things used to try and strangle him in the night, he was grateful for his space being looked after – even if he couldn’t look after himself at the best of times.

Jaskier leads them into a living room adjoining a kitchen. There are more boxes inside, but scanning his eyes around the room, Geralt takes in what’s already there. A worn leather couch with throws slung over its back, bookshelves bursting with everything from classics to newer works. An acoustic guitar and a lute sit by a TV set. Everything, the framed prints on the walls and the small Polaroid pictures slung between on twine, everything has Jaskier embedded into it.

The other man nods to the side of the room. “Just put the amp there,” he says, setting his guitar case down nearby. His hands wring together. “Do you want anything to drink? We’ve got tea or beer, or water. I’m pretty sure there’s wine somewhere too.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Water’s fine. I’m driving.”

A small flash of colour blots Jaskier’s face. “Oh, right, yeah.” He turns on his heel and wanders over to the kitchen.

The downstairs alone is easily bigger than Geralt’s own apartment. And Redania is a nice neighbourhood. “Nice place,” Geralt comments. He wanders over to one of the bookshelves, scanning over each spine. There are small figures of creatures and characters sitting on the shelves, with guitar picks and other small trinkets. Even this small segment of the house looks so lived in and weathered.

“Yeah, uh,” Jaskier fidgets with the glasses, “my parents left it to me.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow.

Jaskier wanders over with their drinks. He sighs. “Okay, so, an incredibly long story cut very short, my dad wanted me to work with him in his company in downtown Redania. Mum and him were fixing up this place and they said I could have it.” Jaskier shrugs. “I didn’t really want to be a corporate type and they already had the deed signed to me so...” Jaskier gestures around vaguely.

Geralt takes his water. In the time he’s known Jaskier, he hasn’t spoken much about his parents. He assumed things, of course. He knew that Jaskier lived inside a nice house in a nice neighbourhood. Even through the worn jeans and boots and linen shirts sitting over tees, Geralt smelt money off of the other man. He came from something – doing odd gigs in places like the _Adder and Jewels_ and the _Kingfisher_ wasn’t going to be bringing in a Redanian rent.

Jaskier flops on to the couch, toeing off his boots. “They haven’t asked me for it back, though,” he says idly, drawing his legs up to perch on the couch, “so there’s that.”

Geralt hums. “My dad left me and my brothers his apartment,” he says slowly. “Moved out to the countryside to _get away from it all_.”

Jaskier blinks, mulling the words over. “God, that sounds like the best idea ever.”

“You would give up living in the city?”

“God no. Not now, at least. But when I’m crotchety and old and sick of fame, I’ll liquidise everything I own and move out to a field somewhere. It’ll just be me and my chickens and my sheep.”

Geralt snorts. He wanders over to the couch, taking up the free space beside Jaskier. “Sounds like a plan,” he says. “I can imagine the headlines now; _has-been musician Jaskier Pankratz finally snaps and goes M.I.A_.”

Jaskier looks affronted. “ _Has-been_? Honestly, Geralt, you can say such terribly hurtful things.”

Geralt lifts his glass in a mock-toast. “Guilty.”

Time just ebbs by whenever he’s with Jaskier. It’s not a struggle to find something to talk about. Jaskier drags on about his gig again, remembering moments from the night that stood out. He’ll be playing in the _Kingfisher_ in two weeks. “God, I haven’t even looked at organising a set-list,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He’s only seen a handful of Jaskier’s gigs. Post-gig Jaskier is more familiar to him. The faintest tang of sweat and smoke and alcohol from the bar still clings to his skin.

His phone buzzes. Fishing it out, he blinks at the screen.

**_Yenn: I met with the midwife today. She seems nice._ **

Jaskier’s eyes flicker down to Geralt’s phone. It’s barely for a second, and Jaskier looks back up at him, his head slightly cocked to the side. “How is she?” he asks. “Your ex. And the baby.”

“Good. They’re both good.” Geralt drums a finger along the lip of the glass, slipping his phone back into his jacket. He’ll reply to her later. “Yenn’s going for a scan again in a few weeks. It’s, uh. It’s when we can find out the sex of the baby.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. “Do you want to?”

“I mean, I don’t really care either way,” Geralt shrugs. “I just...I want them to be healthy.”

Jaskier hums. “The usual parent wish,” he concedes, downing the last of his drink. He nods to Geralt’s glass. “Do you want a refill?”

“No, I’m good.”

Jaskier gets up, though, shuffling back towards the kitchen. Above them, the boards creak and footfalls patter around. Jaskier blinks up at it before the staircase outside in the hall creaks. “Jaskier, are you home?—”

A woman pauses at the portal of the door. She’s around Jaskier’s age, if not slightly younger; a rounded face with the barest of cheekbones peaking out. Dressed in nothing more than a baggy shirt that completely hangs off of one shoulder and some sweatpants, she instantly straightens when her eyes fall on to Geralt. “Oh,” she blinks. “Hi.”

Geralt lifts his chin. “Hey.”

Jaskier scrambles out from the kitchen, a bottle of wine caught by its neck in one hand, and his glass in another. “I thought you were still out with Essi and Shani.”

“I bailed,” she shrugs. “Shani wanted to go to some Cintran bar she heard of.” The woman looks between the two of them, strands of straw-blond hair falling out from a loose bun perched on the top of her head. Her light coloured eyes are scrutinising as they scan over Geralt, all but pinning him in his seat. A slow smile crawls along her lip. Geralt barely has any time to notice it until Jaskier has her caught by the elbow and hauled back out to the hallway. “Bye Geralt!” she calls back into the room before she cackles a sharp laugh.

Jaskier mutters something to her, something that Geralt can’t make out. Before long, footsteps creak the staircase and Jaskier slips back into the living room. “Sorry about that,” he sighs. “Pris can be...a lot.”

“Pris, the one who went to Dr. Nenneke?”

Jaskier nods. “The very same.”

“I should have thanked her for her review, then,” Geralt replies. It was helpful, even if it was just a copied chunk of text from one phone to another. Everything Priscilla had said about the therapist turned out to be true. She was a kind woman who had the patience to weather Geralt’s pauses when he would try and talk. Geralt hums. “She seemed to know who I was.”

A light flush colours Jaskier’s cheeks. “I may have mentioned you a few times,” he says slowly. “She wondered why I stopped calling her about my problems at one in the morning.”

 _Because he had Geralt now_. Somewhere along the line, it had become a thing. Calls that come with the night, late-hour drives around the boroughs. Conversations about anything and everything that stretch out until morning. When he became Jaskier’s own personal therapist, he didn’t know. He didn’t know when Jaskier became his, either.

Jaskier reclaims his seat on the other end of the couch, sat facing Geralt with his back pressed against the armrest. He pours out an ample glass of wine before setting the bottle on to the floor. He fidgets with the neck of his glass, drumming his rings against it in a rapid beat. Something’s changed. He’s more on edge now, but it slowly slinks out of the room the more time passes between them. “Can I ask you a question?” he asks suddenly, eyes widening slightly at the apparent realisation that the words managed to leave his mouth.

Geralt, mid-sip of his own drink, nods.

Whatever gave the man enough courage to ask the question in the first place isn’t with him anymore. Jaskier looks down at his glass, his fingers twitching and tapping until he clears his throat. “Do you...The night we met, I.” A frown creases his brow. Looking at the rim of his glass and nothing else, Jaskier pushes out. “I kissed you, and when I sobered up a bit, I felt awful about it. You were kind to me, and you didn’t have to be. And I don’t know why I did it. I thought about it a lot, after, I mean. I thought that I did it because I wanted to forget about Valdo. But whatever I thought, it wasn’t it. And when I did think about it, about the kiss, I thought...I thought that I wanted to do it again. When we met up, and we talked in your car, or at some diner in Kaedwen, I wanted to...”

The air is thin. Something wraps around him, squeezing his lungs. Geralt’s heart hammers against his chest, trying to claw up his throat or explode out of his chest.

“You had a lot going on in your life,” Jaskier continues, “and I didn’t think it would fair to either of us if we started anything while one of us is compromised. So I...I left it. I thought to myself, _let him get better_. _Let him figure out his shit and then we can see what happens_.”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek.

The other man sets his glass down, running his fingers through his hair. He blows out a harsh breath. “And you seem better now,” Jaskier says simply. “So, I guess I just wanted to ask...do you want to go out sometime? I know we go out, like, meeting up to talk and stuff. But I mean, do you want to, I don’t know, go...”

And he leaves it. He’s never known Jaskier to stumble. The frown etched into his brow isn’t for anything else but realising that he’s frustrated with himself. The words won’t come. Or they are there, in his head, but something is holding the dam in place, refusing to let them out of his mouth.

But Geralt meets him halfway. Before anything can stop him, he clears his throat. “Yeah,” he rasps. “That...sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So while nothing big Plot Wise happens (imo), I did manage to sit Jaskier's ass down and get him to make the first move. Because while I did say this would be a slow burn, even I get annoyed with myself and just want them to smooch lmao
> 
> I'm fighting through some Mental Health things at the moment, and writing seems to help, but the struggle is to sit down and write and not just fall into bed and stay there 😂 Writing about Geralt getting better from his own shit, though, is helping me get over my shit. So make of that what you will.


	8. Chapter 8

Nothing will ever keep them together. No matter how many times they tried, it was never going to work. Geralt thought that maybe that was why their breaking up hit him as hard as it did. Breaking up with someone was never easy. But what followed was a succession of realisations that they could have never worked; that no matter how much time and effort they both put it, nothing was ever going to tie them securely together. Nothing would ever make them happy. They were too strong for each other.

The baby is an entity on their own. They’ll keep Yennefer in Geralt’s life, but he’ll never have her as a girlfriend or a fiancée or a wife. She’ll be their child’s mother and that’s that. Another thing he had to sit down with and accept. Nenneke helped with that. After he had presented his brain to her, the remnants of a maelstrom left behind, she simply nodded and started picking apart everything, helping him sort it all out.

There’s a crack left behind that Jaskier easily fits himself into. No one has ever slipped into his life as easily as Jaskier has. It’s like he’s always been there. Geralt can’t remember a time where he wasn’t. When Yenn left, she broke apart from him that left a jagged wound. It has healed and scarred over. And it hurts, from time to time. Something reminds him that the scar is there, that it’s capable of hurting him if he reaches out to touch it.

But it’s nothing like it was before.

If anything shows, Eskel and Lambert pick it up. Word spreads out like a wildfire. Vesemir makes his usual visits to their apartment more often; gazes lingering on Geralt whenever he steps out of his room. Even Coën seems to be surprised at the sudden change in mood. He isn’t afraid of stepping into the garage’s office, nervous that he’ll catch Geralt off-guard and send him into an anxiety attack just by asking if the next week’s rota has been drawn up.

From his post at the kitchen’s breakfast bar, Eskel watches Geralt walk between his own bedroom and the nearby bathroom. It’s his fifth trip. And counting.

He says nothing. He never would. Whatever good mood has found the other man could sour if he mentions it. So he goes back to picking at his dinner and scanning his eyes over his book.

Lambert doesn’t have such courtesies.

“So who is he?” Lambert asks with a certain cheerful lilt to his voice. He keeps to the bottom of the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms over his chest. Roach pins him there with her eyes; the dog dutifully sitting in the middle of the hall, keeping a watchful eye on her owner. Lambert lifts his chin. “Do we know him?”

“ _We_? Leave me out of this.” Eskel asks around a mouthful of food. He arches an eyebrow when Lambert rolls his eyes.

No answer comes. Geralt crosses to the bathroom again, fighting the last strands of his hair back into a tie. The person standing in the mirror, the one looking back at him, hasn’t been seen in months. Stubble still prickles along his jaw, but it’s neater than what it was. His hair and skin have been scrubbed and washed and stand brighter. Even the dark circles that had settled underneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, they’re dimmed.

Worn jeans have been replaced by a nicer pair – one that has intact hems at the ankles. With a fitted Henley shirt and brown boots, he’s more put together than he has been in a while. The first time he stepped out into the kitchen to grab a drink, Eskel almost choked on a piece of chicken. _You look...nice_ , he stammered. Geralt just shrugged it off.

If only this man could stay around. Something might scare him off, and suddenly before Geralt knows it, he’s flung back to the start—

A wet nose nudges his thigh. Glancing down, a small smile tugs the corner of his mouth when Roach perches beside him, tail drifting over the bathroom floor in a slow wag. He reaches down, scratching the back of her ears. She won’t be able to come with him – something she’s seemed to have made peace with. Spending the night at home won’t be strange for her. If anything, she’ll occupy her time with tormenting Lambert and Eskel, and maybe doting over Coën if he comes over. 

She huffs when he pulls away, tucking a few stray strands of hair back behind his ears. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Fishing it out, he tries not to let his chest tighten too much at Jaskier’s name popping up on the screen.

_Jaskier: Ready to go! Just text me when you get here :)_

Geralt types out a reply.

**Geralt: Not inviting me in first?**

_Jaskier: Pris and Essi are home and I would rather die than have them tease me about going on a date. They can tease me after Date #3_

There’s a long, drawn-out groan from the hallway. “Would you at least hurry up?” Lambert grunts. “You aren’t the only one living here. I have to piss.”

Roach’s ears prick. Her lip lifts. There’s a grumble of _stupid mutt_ out in the hallway before Lambert pads away, back towards the kitchen. Shuffling back out towards his room, Geralt picks up his jacket and scarf. Roach hops on to his bed, padding around in a circle before settling near his pillows. “I’ll come home,” he assures her, adjusting the sheets slightly so she’s half-buried in some sort of nest. The golden retriever huffs. “And you know Jaskier. He bought you that dog-drink.”

He didn’t even know a _puppuccino_ existed until last week. It’s his own fault, he supposes, telling Jaskier that the only way to win over Roach’s heart is through her stomach. The next day, Jaskier arrived to a thankfully empty garage armed with a coffee for Geralt and a cup of whipped cream for the dog. One cleaned-out plastic cup later, Geralt had to pick his jaw up from the ground when the retriever coiled around Jaskier’s legs, pillowing her head on his lap, and pawing at him when his petting stopped. All the while her tail never stopped wagging.

At the mention of Jaskier’s name, her ears prick. “I’ll make sure that you can come on our next date,” he says, scratching the top of her head. She seems fine with that – or as fine as a dog can be, he supposes. Curling back up into a ball, she doesn’t follow as he steps out into the hallway.

Geralt pulls on his jacket and loops his scarf loosely around his neck. He finds Eskel still sat in the kitchen. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he says quietly, suddenly finding his cheeks starting to warm.

Eskel waves a hand. “We’re not your parents. We won’t be waiting up for you.”

Lambert looks about to say something, but a withering glare sent across the room from Eskel kills it. Instead, when Geralt palms his phone and keys and makes for the door, Lambert calls down the hall. “Have fun!”

* * *

Winter has claimed the boroughs. Some are faring better than others, with snows settling over those towards the north-side. Ploughs have been out, digging snow out from roads and sidewalks. Kaedwen has been spared the worst of it, but Geralt still buries his nose into his scarf. It’s _cold_. Bitterly cold winter winds whip up along the streets, crawling up sleeves and jackets and prickling skin. It takes a while for his car to heat up. Even halfway out of Kaedwen, he still keeps his scarf close to his neck and chin.

Redania is fairing the same. Apart from some black ice claiming some pavements, the roads are clear. Those driving take their time, keeping apart from each other just in case. It takes that bit longer to get to Jaskier’s house – time he accounted for.

He sends the man a text when he parks, mindful to keep the car’s heater going. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the front door open and shut. He turns just in time to see Jaskier tread carefully over the ice-claimed pavements.

Once inside the car, Jaskier rubs his hands together. “Gods, when did it get so cold?” he asks.

“It’s winter,” Geralt offers simply. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Jaskier sending him an unimpressed look.

“I guess you’ll have to keep me warm, then,” Jaskier says wistfully, glancing out the window as they pull away from his house.

In the time that they’ve known each other, they’ve been to a couple of cafes and late-night diners. Endlessly picking at food and sipping drinks, just talking about the car crashes of their lives.

But Jaskier pulls out his phone, scrolling through a few things before finding the reservation. _It’s nothing fancy_ , he assured Geralt during their phone call last night. _A quiet Italian place in Cintra. Essi swears by it._

It’s not that far of a drive. Jaskier fills the time talking about his next gig. The _Kingfisher_ hired him to stay on for another few weeks, just as the holidays start. “I could have stayed on,” Jaskier shrugs, “but I have to see if my parents want me to come home or not.”

Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t seem excited by that.”

Jaskier sighs. “Spending a few days at home with mother and father? It wouldn’t be my first choice,” he says. “But it’ll be fine. It’s only for a few days. Then I can go back to not seeing them again for another few months.”

Vesemir will appear in their apartment. How he manages to sneak in on them, like a shadow, he’ll never know. For a man who wanted to leave the city behind, to seek some sanctuary out in the countryside with his crops and animals, he’s keen on spending as many days as he can lurking around the old apartment.

But Vesemir means food. Geralt can already smell the roast turkey and vegetables. He can hear the arguments snapping out of the kitchen between Vesemir and Eskel over how best to reduce gravy.

“If you don’t want to spend it with your parents,” Geralt says after a time, “you can stay here.”

“Pris and Essi go to their own homes for the holidays,” Jaskier replies, “and Shani is spending hers abroad.”

“I’ll be around,” Geralt says. He feels Jaskier turn to look at him. “My brothers and I live in Kaedwen. We have no one else to go to.” Geralt clears his throat. “You can...spend the winter with us, if you want?”

Jaskier is silent for a moment. It’s not common for the man. He’s brimming with words, always speaking quickly to get through stories or his latest inspiration of songs. Geralt’s come to like the sound of his voice. But to hear Jaskier quiet, it’s disconcerting.

He’s about to take back his offer when Jaskier finally speaks. “That sounds good,” he says softly, words barely lifting above the dim music of the radio. “Thank you.”

The restaurant is in Cintra’s quieter corners, nestled in between other restaurant and cafes. Colourful festive lights have been hung up already, coiling around the thin trunks of trees and hanging across streets.

Leaving the warmth behind to step out into the freezing winter air, Geralt tries his best to hide the sharp inhale of breath he takes. The restaurant is only a few strides away from where they parked. Jaskier bundles the lapels of his jacket together and rushes over to him. Even through the dim lighting on the street, Geralt spots a faint red flush biting the peaks of Jaskier’s cheeks.

He leads both of them into the restaurant, talking with the waiter who shows them to their seats. Even with the city being quiet, the restaurant is almost full with couples and families sitting around them. A soft wave of chatter laps over the space. Led to one of the small two-person booths in the corner, they order their drinks. Jaskier sets his crossed arms on the table. “So,” he says, “you said that you and your brothers spend winter together. What’s that like?”

“Chaotic,” Geralt says simply. At Jaskier’s sharp laugh, he presses on. “Our dad, Vesemir, comes over and ultimately there’s a battle for the kitchen. Lambert and I stay well out of it.”

He tells them about last year, and the year before that. Families have their own traditions around the holidays, and Geralt’s is when he prepares a hiding place for the inevitable war of his brother and father. Some years have gotten particularly nasty. It’s always forgotten about as soon as food lands on the table. When Lambert can be coaxed out of his room with promises that Vesemir and Eskel are done with their arguing over who’s doing what and when.

Jaskier presses a laugh into his palm. “You mention them sometimes, but you don’t talk about them. Your brothers, I mean.”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “You have to meet them yourself, then.”

“What are they like?” Jaskier asks. “I can’t go in completely blind.”

“Well,” Geralt says. “I’m the oldest. Then there’s Eskel, and then Lambert. We’re...not related, but the family unit we have is all we’ve ever known.”

“And your dad?” Jaskier tilts his head slightly. 

“Vesemir? He was our foster dad. He liked collecting packs of troubled kids who would never make anything of themselves once the system kicked them out, and tried to help them make something of themselves. Eventually he adopted us and...” Geralt splays his hands. _That’s that_.

Jaskier smiles. A soft one that curls only one side of his lip. It’s nice, in the gentle golden light of the restaurant. “He sounds like a good man,” Jaskier says.

Geralt hums. “He’s the best.”

Food gets set in front of them; pasta with thick sauces and baskets of freshly baked, soft bread. Small ceramic bowls of butter and parmesan cheese sit between them. As soon as the waiter steps away, Jaskier reaches out for a bread roll. “Are they like you? Your brothers?”

Geralt shakes his head. “That’s why I think people don’t believe us when we say we’re brothers. We’re all so different. Eskel is the more level-headed one.” Geralt loads a spoonful of grated cheese over his pasta. He cocks his head, measuring his words. “Lambert can be...”

“Challenging?”

“A prick,” Geralt huffs, “but yeah, _challenging_ works.”

Jaskier laughs around a mouthful of pasta, hiding the worst of it behind the back of his hand. A sommelier drifts over to offer wine, but Jaskier shakes his head. “We’re okay, thank you,” he smiles at the woman.

“You could have had some,” Geralt points out.

Something flashes over Jaskier’s face; something that disappears just as quickly. “You’re driving,” he says simply. “In solidarity, I’ll be a fellow teetotaller for the night.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop the small smile ghosting his lips. “What about you? Do you have any siblings?” he asks instead.

“A younger sister,” Jaskier says, focusing his attention mostly on twirling pasta around his fork. He jaw flexes slightly. “Isabelle. She’s nine.”

“Nine?”

“She was born when I was in college,” Jaskier explains. “I don’t see her that often.”

Redania is one of the bigger boroughs. Driving through it is a special kind of hell. The damn thing seems to stretch on for miles and miles. And if Jaskier went to Oxenfurt of all places, Geralt can only imagine all the time the man spent there, hunched over books and withering away in libraries. Not a lot of time spent travelling back home.

And even now, living in a nice house in one of Redania’s nicest neighbourhoods, with the relationship with his parents slowly withering away, Geralt can’t imagine he’s graced the door of his parent’s house often enough for a young child to know who he is.

Jaskier lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug. “If your brothers seem that chaotic, I might just take you up on that offer to winter with you lot,” he says. “If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“I’m the one who offered, Jask,” Geralt says gently. “They’ll be alright with it. Eskel will love another mouth to feed.”

Jaskier’s cheeks colour slightly. “I’ll happily go wherever the food is.” He lifts his chin, holding Geralt’s gaze. “And I’m sure the company will be okay, too.”

It’s like all the other times they’ve had meals together. Sheltered away in a booth, away from any prying eyes of nearby couples or families, it’s just the two of them. Jaskier tells him more about his days at Oxenfurt. He has his own imaginings of what the academy is like – Jaskier doesn’t help by telling him of stuffy professors and the etiquette and _degree of excellence_ they’re all supposed to uphold.

He almost doesn’t want it to stop. Even though a plate of pasta and rolls of bread sit heavily in his stomach, he can’t bear the thought of standing up to leave. Because leaving will mean having to drive Jaskier back home. And there are only so many winding streets he can take to draw out the drive before it’s ridiculous and bordering on kidnap.

Jaskier ambles towards the register at the front of the restaurant. He only stops when Geralt catches his elbow. “You bought coffee last time,” Geralt says, already fishing his wallet out of his pocket.

“That was coffee, though-” Jaskier starts. Any argument that would have come slowly dies on his tongue when Geralt anchors him with a withering stare. _No arguments. This is happening_. Jaskier huffs. “I’m paying next time.”

Both of them shuffle towards the car, braving the winds outside. Somehow, it’s gotten even colder. Jaskier’s teeth chatter as he slips into the car, rubbing his hands together to get them warm. Geralt starts up the car, getting the radiator going before anything else. He takes a quick glance at the time. It’s been almost two hours. And Geralt doesn’t want to say goodbye just yet. “Do you want to go anywhere else?” he asks timidly, casting a quick look over to Jaskier.

“I don’t mind,” Jaskier smiles. His eyelids hood slightly as he rests his head back against his seat.

In the end, sensing that with a stomach full of pasta and bread Jaskier might fall asleep at any moment, he takes the long roads home. Without drifting on to the highway, something that would take them directly into the next borough, he goes through different streets. The festive lights out blink and blur as they pass, merging into one bright colourful light. Jaskier watches them, laughing softly at the ornate light displays outside some stores and in the middle of the town square.

When Redanian streets start appearing around them, Jaskier sighs. “Tonight was nice,” he says softly, “better than nice, actually.”

“ _Nice_? A wordsmith rendered wordless,” Geralt chuckles, turning down Jaskier’s street. When his house comes into view, Geralt’s chest tightens. The lights are on upstairs. When he gets close enough, he sees the figure of a woman standing at one of the windows. Suddenly, another scrambles up beside her.

When they park, Jaskier looks out on to the door of his house. He regards it for a moment. In his lap, his hands fidget together. “So,” he says slowly, dragging the word out. “Thank you for tonight.”

When he looks back to Geralt, they watch each other for a moment. The car hums underneath them, the radio still playing soft music, filling the silence that sits over them. The door is right there. A straight walk over. Barely a couple of strides.

And Jaskier doesn’t move an inch.

Geralt lifts his chin. The man fidgets and looks at everything but Geralt. With a simple, long, steadying breath, he finally turns to face Geralt. “So, the last time I kissed you, you pulled away and said that I was drinking,” Jaskier says slowly. Something glints in his eye. “I’m as sober as a judge now.”

“Braving sobriety all night just for an end-of-date kiss,” Geralt’s voice holds a slight mock-marvel. “However did you survive?”

“I won’t if you don’t kiss me,” Jaskier’s eyes flicker down to Geralt’s lips.

He can still remember their first one. The slight sweet smoke of whiskey on Jaskier’s tongue and the musk of cigarette smoke on his clothes.

Jaskier sets their foreheads together first. Warm skin just pressing. Their noses brush, a breath shared between the both of them. Geralt watches a wide smile crinkle Jaskier’s eyes, just before he leans forward and catches his lips in his own.

Geralt’s hand goes for the other man’s cheek, gently holding him there. His thumb brushes along the arch of his cheekbone.

It’s nothing more than a press of lips, but it’s everything. Geralt’s heart clenches and hammers against his ribcage, threatening to burst out. Underneath him palm, he can feel Jaskier’s skin flush and warm.

When they part, Jaskier sets their foreheads back together. A solid touch, anchoring. It’s the closest they’ve been since that night, and even then, this feels so much closer. There are flecks of silver in Jaskier’s eyes, making the already bright blue brighter.

“Worth being sober all night?” Geralt asks. His voice is a rumble.

Jaskier huffs a short laugh, but nods. Their noses brush, as do their lips, and he wants to kiss him again. He wants to coil an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and keep him there.

But Jaskier is the one to pull away. A flush has settled over his cheeks. “Are you free next week?” he rasps.

Geralt blinks, but eventually nods. “Yeah, yeah I think so.”

Jaskier gathers his jacket together. “Good. I know a place in Temeria,” he says, opening the car door and stepping out into the street. A rush of cold air whips into the car. Jaskier bares a toothy smile. “Goodnight Geralt.”

And the door closes. Geralt blinks. He watches the man shuffle over the ice-ridden path. He barely gets halfway up the steps to the house before two pyjama-clad women throw the front door open and drag him inside.

* * *

Since the last time they saw each other, she’s gained a bump. It’s finally poking out from underneath her shirts. No matter how many times she folds the lapels of her jacket over her front or crosses her arms in front of her, it shows through. Something settles deep in his chest. That’s their child. The life they’ve both created – albeit, unintentionally.

Their drive to the clinic is quiet. A soft hum of music floating out from the radio fills some of the silence. Yennefer keeps her eyes on her phone, tapping out texts and emails at lightning speed. She’s dressed in her usual Aedirn armour – black cotton pants, a loose lavender-coloured blouse, and a grey peacoat.

When she slips her phone back into her bag, she sighs. “Sorry about that,” she says, folding her arms over her middle. “I don’t know why so many people start bringing each other to court around the holidays. Virfuril has clients coming out of the rafters.”

Geralt hums. “Easy cases?”

Yennefer lifts a shoulder. “Easy cases but difficult people,” she says simply. But she seems to enjoy the chaos. No one could work for Virfuril and his guild of solicitors and lawyers if they didn’t. And Yenn has always had some sort of depraved enjoyment out of watching people tear each other apart. If she can be their champion, all the better.

The clinic is quiet. A receptionist waves them through when Yennefer holds up her folder. Every doctor’s appointment and meeting with the midwife is stored inside, with everything from medical results from both of them, to the health of the baby, to prints of past scans. She met with their midwife almost a month ago, and most of her birthing preferences have been sorted out. Not that Geralt had any say in any of it – not that he even wanted a say. _You’re the one who’s giving birth_ , he texted her one night after she asked him about something. _Do whatever you need to._

They’re shepherded to a small waiting room outside the main clinic. The receptionist offers them both a small smile. “I’ll tell the obstetrician that you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Yennefer replies, taking up a seat to the corner of the room. A few other expectant mothers are inside, idly flicking through magazines or chatting with their partners. A few of their men look sheepishly around, looking more interested in the painting prints hanging up on the wall than anything else going on around them.

He remembers being like that. The first scan Yennefer went to, and the cold feeling of dread that lined his veins and chilled his blood. The wish and want that the baby would be fine and everything would be okay, and the whole unknown-ness of it all. But the first time their child’s heartbeat battered out through the machine, the first time he spotted her scrunched up little face, and her fidgeting hands, his blood thawed.

Other mothers are called in first. Ones that, presumably, have their first scans. Yennefer pulls out her phone, idly flicking through any replies she might have gotten. Geralt tries to look anywhere else. When he fishes out his own phone, he quells a smile when he spots a text sent from Jaskier.

 _Jaskier:_ _Odd question but do you know how to kill a lobster? Essi and her girlfriend are having it for dinner tonight and neither of them has a clue how to cook it. They’re currently hiding in my room because, and I quote, “it’s loose and has dominion over the kitchen”._

**Geralt: I don’t, but I’m pretty sure that Eskel does. He’s the cook. I’ll let you know what he thinks. Murderer.**

_Jaskier: I will have you know I have NOTHING to do with this! I’m in my room writing my next smash hit_.

A picture arrives next – a selfie of Jaskier, sitting back against the headboard of his bed, hair askew. He’s definitely run his fingers through it in frustration. Some dark circles are starting to shadow his eyes. Too many late nights spent hunched over a piano or curled around a guitar. But he’s wearing a lazy smile that Geralt’s grown to love, his eyes slightly hooded in a way that screams _I haven’t slept properly in days_.

**Geralt: Why did you send me that?**

_Jaskier: Deniability._

**Geralt: That wouldn’t stand up in front of a jury. No one would believe you were writing your ‘next smash hit’ when you haven’t even had one.**

_Jaskier: I’ll see you in court, asshole. I have just the defence lawyer in mind. Your ex works for that firm in Aedirn, yeah? I’ll be sure to give her a call before she goes on maternity leave._

**Geralt: Low blow, Jask. Low blow.**

“Eskel or Lambert?”

Looking over at Yennefer, Geralt blinks when he sees the woman watching him. She nods down to his phone. “You’ve been trying not to laugh for the past five minutes,” she says. The faintest of smiles shadows her lips. One he hasn’t seen in a while.

He can feel his cheeks starting to colour. “Uh, neither.” His phone blinks to black before he slides it back into his jacket pocket. She still stares at him, scrutinising light-coloured eyes baring into his very soul. But there’s nothing behind them. Nothing that would tell him that if he gave a wrong answer, she’d kill him where he stood and get away with it. He clears his throat. “A guy I met a few months ago.”

Yenn’s eyebrows climb to her hairline. “Oh?”

He can feel his face heating up. The room in the air grows thicker, threatening to smother him. But he clears his throat again, trying to dislodge a lump. “We’ve, um. We’ve been talking for a while.” She tilts her head. “We went for dinner last week.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. Scrutinising. Trying to dig into him and find what he’s not saying. She’s always been eerily good at reading people. That’s why she’s so good as a lawyer. But there’s nothing malicious in how she tries to suss Geralt out now. Instead, she asks quietly. “Are you happy?”

“Happier than I was before,” he replies.

It’s not meant as a dig. He doesn’t want the words lashing at her skin. But something flashes across her face for a brief second before disappearing entirely. Yenn offers him a small smile instead, one that barely lifts the corners of her painted lips. “Good.” She nods firmly. “I want you to be happy.”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. “I want you to be happy too,” he says after a time, so softly that he worries that the hum of the reception has muffled the words entirely.

But Yenn hums. She fidgets with the lid of her water bottle, looking up and down the hallway, wincing at the sharp smell of disinfectant sitting in the air. She curls an arm over her stomach, her hand gentling her side. Geralt eyes it. “They’ve been kicking,” Yenn says softly, like if her words were any louder, the baby would stop. They aim for her hand. She winces slightly. “Little creature, they’re really going for the kidneys.”

A light laugh leaves him. He still looks to her hand though, to the baby that’s squirming underneath it. Yenn meets his gaze. “Here,” she says, reaching out with her free hand to catch his. When it’s caught, he has to force himself to breathe. It’s the first time he’s felt her skin in months. It’s soft and warm. Memories flash in front of him. She tugs his hand over, pressing it against the side of her bump. A slight frown creases her brow. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to feel her,” she mumbles. “Tissaia said that it might be a while before anyone outside can feel her kick.”

_Her._

**_Her._ **

He waits for it, waits for something to twitch or bump against his hand. In that time, an older woman dressed in sky blue scrubs steps into the reception, armed with a clipboard and a few folders. She scans the room, adjusting her glasses. “Yennefer Vengerberg?” she calls out.

Geralt’s hand slips away when Yennefer straightens. As soon as they stand, and his arm drops to his side, his skin chills and pimples. It’s gone. Whispers wisp along the shell of his ear. His heart starts to quicken in his chest.

Yennefer looks over her shoulder to him. “Are you alright?” she asks quietly, leading them through the reception to the obstetrician.

Geralt nods. “Yeah,” he says tightly. “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙌🏻 THEY SMOOCHED (for real!) 🙌🏻 Right, so it's not the biggest smooch in the world, but Jask is being FLIRTY. Promising more. To who? Geralt or you, the lovely reader? Who knows? NOT ME. 
> 
> Also remember when I said that my MH was preventing me from writing; this chapter is 5k words long RIP me (also wrote all of it with an inflamed tendon in my left hand (and a potentially trapped nerve on top of that yeet!))


	9. Chapter 9

_Lam: So what is it? A boy or a girl?_

_Lam: Geralt, I have money riding on this. Please tell me it’s a boy_

_Lam: Geralt._

_Lam: Why aren’t you replying to me? This is very important._

**_Eskel: If Lambert is lighting up your phone, I can only say sorry. Coën let it slip that you and Yenn are at your doctor’s appointment. I’ll make sure to hide his phone._ **

In the end, he puts his phone on silent and pockets it. Out of sight and out of mind. Yennefer and him shuffle into one of the examination rooms. He’s seen it all before, in a scan they had done a few weeks ago. This doesn’t look any different. The walls are painted some sort of pastel purple, with a white roof and tall lancet windows looking out on to a nearby park, the room looks much bigger than it is. The stinging aseptic smell still stings his nose, but he gets used to it. Everything is so bright and clean.

The obstetrician gestures for them to take a seat at her desk as she runs over Yenn’s file. “We’ll leave your birthing preferences to your midwife,” she says cheerfully, setting those pages aside for the moment, “hopefully you won’t need to see me at the birth, if all goes to plan.”

Yenn offers a small smile. “Hopefully not.”

If the obstetrician is there, it only means bad news. And while she seems nice, talking in a soft tone that borders on a lulling whisper, Geralt agrees that he’d rather not see her anywhere near Yenn and their baby when the time comes. In a perfect world, it would just be them. The baby will come and they’ll scream and cry and as soon as they’re put into Yenn’s arms, they’ll stop. And it’ll be wonderful. Maybe the last of his demons will leave by then, chased out by the cooing of a new baby.

The obstetrician adjusts her glasses, fishing out a moleskin-bound folder. “Mum all healthy and well,” she says, running her eyes over Yennefer’s test results. She glances up and regards Geralt over the rim of her glasses. “And dad?”

He’s fine. A series of blood tests told him that. All the results should be there with Yenn’s. But he’s been to enough of these scans to know that she’s asking about his background; illnesses that he may not have, but might have skipped a generation. Geralt clears his throat. “They still won’t let me see my mother’s files,” Geralt mumbles, “and I don’t know who my dad is. I’m adopted. It’s been a while since I’ve had to...”

He can feel Yenn looking at the side of his face. She knows all of this. They’ve spent years together and she still doesn’t even know Geralt’s mum’s name, let alone his dad’s – whoever that is.

The woman waves her hand. “Oh, that’s alright.” Her eyes are kind. They remind him of Dr. Nenneke’s. “We check for the main disorders anyway, and your little one is perfectly healthy. Nothing is wrong with them whatsoever. We just want to be sure that if something does pop up, we know where it’s coming from.”

But they’ll still need to check. There are only so many things they can do now, while their child is still developing. Once they’re born, they’ll be whisked away and lorded over by nameless masked faces.

And the thought of it chills Geralt’s blood.

Yenn nudges his shoulder. “She’ll be fine,” she says softly. Geralt blinks. The files have been put back in place and pushed in front of them. The obstetrician is at the other side of the room, readying the ultrasound machine and laying a clean sheet over the examination bed.

Geralt clears his throat. “You’re fairly certain it’s a girl,” he mumbles.

Even far away, and with Geralt’s voice so low, the doctor laughs. “Mums always know,” she says simply, gesturing to the bed. “Now, we’ll just confirm it.”

Yenn hands him her coat. Smoothing it over his arm, he mutely follows her over to the other side of the room. Once she’s lying down, with her blouse pulled up over her bump, Yennefer looks to the ultrasound’s screen, squinting to make out anything. The tell-tale whooshing of a heartbeat fills the room. _Hello little one_ , he thinks. He might not have been able to feel her kick out in the reception, but she’s as real to him as anything else. She hasn’t even been born yet and she’s already carved out a nook for herself in his life.

The obstetrician keeps her eyes on the screen, angling the wand just-so to get the best view of the baby. “Well I’m glad to say that mum is right,” the woman smiles, turning the screen more towards the both of them, “you’re having a little girl.”

And there she is. Still small, but wiggling around. Her tightly curled fists flail around. Legs kick out in all directions. “She’s a squirmy little one,” the OB comments, angling the wand again. The thump of a heartbeat echoes through the room. For a while, that’s all Geralt can hear. Even as the OB and Yenn talk amongst themselves about the due date and the rundown of how labour is going to go, all Geralt can zone in one is the rhythmic ticking of a heartbeat of his daughter.

“Alright,” the OB says, clearing the last of the gel off of Yenn’s middle and the ultrasound wand. “The next time you see that little face she’ll be in your arms.”

Yenn slowly slips off of the bed, adjusting her blouse and fixing her hair. Geralt hands her back her coat. “Thanks,” she smiles softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He’s learned not to try and help her stand, although he does watch closely as she keeps an arm firmly around her bump as she finds her feet again. But she isn’t oblivious. Yenn can probably see how he frets; wanting her to be slow and careful, and how he just wants to help. He didn’t understand Vesemir at first when he told him that there’s this feeling that washes over an expectant father, a general feeling of uselessness. Yenn is the one carrying their child, feeling them move around, and she’ll be the one going through the maelstrom of labour. And he’ll just be standing there, completely at a loss of what to do.

Taking a quick look outside and Geralt grunts at some darkening clouds that are starting to roll over the city, heavy with rain, about to burst. He fishes his car keys out of his pocket, rolling them around in his hand. A nervous habit he’s always had. The need to just fidget with something to quieten the mind, if not for a few minutes.

The OB hands Yenn back the file. “If you have any problems or questions, just call!” She leads them out of her office.

“Thank you,” Yenn smiles again, this one rounding her cheeks. Just as they’re halfway down the hall, another couple comes down for their own appointment. Checking his phone, he blinks at the time. They’ve only been there for a few minutes; most of it was spent talking. There are more messages from Lambert taking up most of his screen. A lot of them are just Geralt’s name over and over again, trying to get his attention. The last message is _DID YOU PUT YOUR PHONE ON SILENT?_ before they stop. Eskel probably snatched his phone and hid it somewhere.

When they step out into the street, Geralt buries his hands into his pocket. It’s gotten colder, with the occasional flick of rain dropping on to his face. Yenn slides into the car before him, pulling the lapels of her coat snugly around her and their daughter. When Geralt gets in, setting the keys in the ignition, he turns to her. “Do you want to get something to eat, or...?”

Yenn shakes her head. “I should get back to the firm,” she says. “I have some things to finalise with some clients.”

Geralt nods. It’s not the longest drive to her firm. The building itself is one of the tallest towers, reaching into the sky. The peak of it even disappears into a dark grey cloud. People on the street scatter into restaurants and shops as the rain starts. A slow mist at first that slowly becomes large pattering drops. Yenn makes a face. “I can drop you at the door,” Geralt offers.

“That would be great, thanks,” Yenn smiles, gathering her bag on to her lap.

Getting nearer to the firm, Geralt spots a couple of other lawyers sprinting for the glass awning at the front of the building. He parks just outside the door.

“Thank you,” Yenn says suddenly, “for coming to these things. And for being there when I call. It’s...I’m glad that you’re in her life.” She’s quiet for a moment. Her voice gets quiet. “I couldn’t have done this by myself.”

Geralt frowns. “I’m always a call away,” he offers.

This smile is different to the others. It’s warm. It’s the one he used to see in their quieter moments, when it was the two of them curled around each other in bed or on the couch aimlessly scrolling through channels or waiting for food in restaurants. It’s a gentle sort of thing. “Thank you,” she says.

* * *

_Lam: You’ve made me fifty quid poorer. I hope you’re happy._

**Geralt: You do know that I literally had no say in what sex the baby is, right? They figure that shit out on their own.**

There’s no text back. And he has to laugh. An annoyed Lambert will be waiting for him at home. He goes back to the garage for a minute, picking up the last of the work he wants to take home before switching off the lights and electrics and locking up. Kaedwen is quieter in the winter. Some families have left for their relative’s houses in other boroughs. Some keep their calm get-togethers in their houses and nothing more. For being one of the larger boroughs, it’s nothing like Aedirn or Temeria.

He barely gets a step inside the apartment before Roach barrels into his legs. Scratching her chin, she bounds towards his room. Her nails clicking the floorboards draw attention. Before he can collect himself, a familiar head of red curls jut out of the kitchen. “There he is!” Lambert scowls. “The prick who lost my money!”

“ _I_ didn’t lose anything,” Geralt fires back, toeing off his boots and leaving them by the door. Stepping into the living room and kitchen, he warms at the smell of warm bread and tomatoes, garlic, and oregano. 

Lambert huffs from the stove, watching over a pot of gravy. He’s wearing his usual scowl, though it’s deeper than usual.

“You shouldn’t have made a bet if you minded so much,” Geralt reasons, setting his work stuff down at the kitchen island.

“I don’t mind losing money,” Lambert throws out of the kitchen. He points a wooden spoon towards Eskel. “But losing money to _him_? That’s when I have a fucking problem.”

Eskel laughs from the couch. “Your fifty quid will be well spent.”

Geralt glowers at him, but a small smile curls along his lip. “Don’t encourage him,” he says to Eskel. He spots a familiar worn-leather jacket lying over the back of the couch. “Is Vesemir here?”

Eskel nods. “Just gone to the bathroom,” he says, turning back to the TV droning on in the background. “He wanted to come over and ask about the baby.”

 _Of course he did_. Vesemir was always very attentive to them when they were younger. Cleaning scraped knees and gentling their cries at night when nightmares came or weathering teenage angst and hormones when they became too much to handle. But ever since they started living on their own, and Vesemir moved out to the countryside, he always skirts around the edges of their lives. He dips in every so often, making sure that they haven’t killed each other.

But ever since news broke of Yenn’s pregnancy, Vesemir has been a constant figure lurking just out of the corner of his eye.

The older man steps into the kitchen, wandering over to the hoard of pots and pans Lambert has on the stove. He scrutinises over all of them. “Gods above, old man,” Lambert growls, shooing him out of the kitchen, “if you’re going to hover, then you take over. I can do it myself.”

“Aye, I know you can,” Vesemir grunts, waving his hand in dismissal. Lambert flashes a snarl at Vesemir’s back – not as brave to try and fight him face to face – but he goes back to whatever it is he’s doing in there.

Vesemir goes to Geralt. “How are you, my boy?” he asks, slapping a hand on to Geralt’s shoulder. “How’s the baby?”

Geralt glances over Vesemir’s shoulder to Eskel, lounging casually over most of the couch. If a war broke out in the garage over betting, Vesemir would have heard about it. They thought of searching the place once for hidden cameras – the man always seems to know when trouble is brewing, always arriving to cool heads before anything can boil over.

But Eskel shakes his head. He didn’t tell him.

Geralt swallows. “I’m fine,” he nods, “and she’s fine. It’s a girl.”

A brilliant smile breaks out over Vesemir’s face. “A girl!” he delights. The response earns a quirked eyebrow from Geralt. Vesemir clicks his tongue. “I’ve spent my life lording over boys. It’ll be nice to have a change.”

“Assuming the Witch of the West will even let us near the kid,” Lambert grumbles from the kitchen.

It’s almost too quiet to hear, but Vesemir is still as sharp as any of them. He whips around. “Listen here, pup. Like it or not, that woman is the mother to your niece. Geralt has made his peace with Yennefer. Why can’t you?”

Lambert doesn’t answer. Or if he does, it’s a mutter under his breath. He glowers down at the stove, taking up his time with chopping up more vegetables than even trying to match the glare Vesemir is sending him.

Eskel all but sinks further into the couch, his face showing that he’d rather be smothered by the soft fabric than have a war between his dad and brother. But Vesemir’s glare slips away, as does his mood. Lambert keeps to the kitchen. He’ll cool down eventually, he always does. His flare-ups never last long.

Pasta dressed in rich tomato sauce and warm, soft bread line the table. Vesemir stays for dinner because _well, I’m here now, might as well_. Lambert watches the man eat out of the corner of his eye. While he taught all of them how to cook and fend for themselves, Vesemir’s most attentive and successful student was Eskel. The older man hums around a mouthful of pasta, nodding as he swipes a crusty piece of bread through the sauce. Lambert preens slightly at the unmentioned praise.

Geralt picks at his own food. His daughter’s whirling heartbeat is still playing through his head. He can still see her tiny fists, worming around and flailing.

Eskel nudges him. “Everything okay?”

Vesemir and Lambert talk among themselves at the other end of the table. Geralt nods, swirling a forkful of pasta around on the plate. “Yeah, I’m alright,” he says quietly.

Eskel continues to scrutinise the side of his face. But eventually, after a minute, he drops it.

* * *

Jaskier’s house is always warm. Almost overly so. The second he gets inside, his jacket and scarf have to come off or he’ll break out into a sweat. He leaves them and his boots by the coat rack near the door. Jaskier brings them into the living room. He didn’t think it was possible, but him and his housemates have managed to coil and thread more fairy lights through the room; to the point where the main lights haven’t even been turned on. It’s nice. A soft glow dimly lighting the space. A fire is lit in the living room hearth. It’s a nice sort of warmth that loosens his muscles and buries deep into his bones.

It was only the two of them last time he was here. Now, Geralt looks up at the ceiling, hearing the heavy footfall of feet upstairs. “Shani and Pris are home,” Jaskier says, setting some drinks on the table. It’s already covered in bowls of crisps and roasted nuts and other snacks. Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. “They said they’d leave us alone, though.”

 _Want to come over and watch a movie?_ He would be lying if he said that he didn’t spend almost five minutes staring at the text, unlocking his phone over and over again when it blinked to black. Their dates have been at cafes and restaurants, with other people milling around.

This is the first time it’s just the two of them, in one of their homes.

His mind has been churning out thoughts about it for hours. It took the combined effort of both Eskel and Coën to push him out of the door and into his car.

Jaskier pulls out his phone, flopping on to one side of the couch. “Do you want to order takeout or anything?” he asks, glancing up from his phone. “The girls wanted pizza.”

“Pizza’s good,” Geralt nods. Jaskier’s legs sling over his thighs. There’s no hesitation to it. No real thought, either. As if they had shared a sort of closeness for years. Geralt sets a hand on to Jaskier’s shin, thumb gentling over the fabric of his jeans.

Jaskier looses a small hum as he taps out an order on to his phone. His toes curl when Geralt’s touch firms slightly, trailing his fingertips up and down the man’s shin and calf.

There’s a soft hum of conversation upstairs. One of the girls – Shani or Pris – laughs. The house, even though it’s almost three times the size of his own apartment, feels so lived in and warm that he can’t think of being anywhere else. He likes his apartment. Living with Eskel and Lambert is all he’s ever known. When Vesemir visits, their little family unit is complete. But this is something different. Jaskier’s own found-family; living in a house that he snagged out from under his actual family.

Jaskier nods. “It’ll be here in an hour,” he says, tossing his phone aside. He looks down at himself, eyes widening slightly as he probably realises for the first time where his legs are. But if he has anything to say about it, it dies on his tongue when he spots Geralt’s hand gently kneading the muscles in his leg.

He does, though, poke Geralt’s thigh with his toe. “I’m paying,” he says firmly. The slight glare only cements his words.

Geralt holds up a hand. “Alright.”

In the time where they’re waiting for their food, they talk. It’s easy with Jaskier. He’s never been a talkative person. When he was younger, the top of his head barely reaching Vesemir’s hip, he used to hide behind the older man, clutching to him as if he would be stolen away. When it became clearer that Vesemir wouldn’t let anyone or anything break apart the family that they had made for themselves, words began slipping out from Geralt’s lips.

He was always quiet. He was always known as the _shy one_ when people spoke about ‘Vesemir’s boys’. Eskel was quiet too, but he could be won over with treats and jokes. Lambert’s always scowling face would eventually slip away too with time. But Geralt was always quiet. Not that he never had things to say: he did. But getting words out was hard, most of the time.

But with Jaskier it’s different.

The other man rests his head against his arm, eyes crinkling at stories of difficult customers to the garage and old stories from his childhood with his brothers. He doesn’t remember a lot of his early life. One of his first memories is playing in a brightly coloured playground with Eskel; both of them grubby cheeked and missing front teeth and wearing scraped knees like badges. Lambert always stumbled after them – the younger brother by a few years, always wanting to do what the elders were doing. But Geralt and Eskel were _six years old_. Why would they hang out with four-year-old babies? Vesemir never understood.

Jaskier hides a laugh into his hand. 

When food comes, Jaskier is the one to fetch it. Geralt stays in the living room, sinking further into the couch as muffled conversations slip in through the crack of the door. A pair of hurried footsteps thunder down the stairs and suddenly a female voice joins Jaskier. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but the voice is gone in seconds when whoever it is scrambles back upstairs. Just as Jaskier slips into the living room, Geralt’s ears prick at the sound of a muffled giggle from the landing.

Their food lies spread out on the table in front of them, picked at every so often. The movie runs on in the background. Jaskier offers a running commentary through most of it, offering insight into scenes and characters. He’s seen this movie a hundred times, but Geralt hasn’t even once. It’s nice – whether it’s the novelty of their situation, lounging in a soft and cosy space like this, or the lull of Jaskier’s voice distantly in the background, he isn’t sure. Maybe a combination of both.

When their food is gone, nothing is left to do other than sink back against the couch and watch the rest of the film. Both of them are sprawled out. As the hours pass, Geralt has slowly slid down into the pillows and cushions of the couch, his legs spreading out on to a nearby ottoman. Jaskier shuffles closer. At some point during the movie – and Geralt has stopped paying attention to it about five minutes ago – the other man has slowly started curling around Geralt’s side. The heat in the room is almost stifling, with Jaskier’s warmth slowly seeping through clothes and on to skin. But he wouldn’t dream of budging. His arm drifts from the back of the couch, curling around Jaskier’s shoulders and tugging him closer. Whether it’s the silent permission the other man was looking for or not, Jaskier moves until he’s half-on Geralt’s lap, his head pillowed against a shoulder.

Jaskier moulds into him. Where one of them starts and the other begins, he doesn’t have a clue. But as he slowly sinks back into the plush cushions of the couch, muscles and bones warm and lax, the thought of having to brave the cold outside to go home slowly creeps in.

There’s a muffled hum against his shoulder. “Do you want to stay?” Jaskier’s voice is sleep-slurred and soft. His fingers are curled into the fabric of Geralt’s shirt, playing with it and smoothening it out.

Geralt sighs. “I don’t have spare clothes,” he says simply, though the argument doesn’t even register as one in his own mind. “And I have to be at the garage early tomorrow.”

Jaskier groans. “Why can’t you become a freelancer like me? Work from home?”

“Because most of us don’t have a paid-off mortgage on a Redanian house,” Geralt fires back. He tries to hide his smile when Jaskier lifts his head, squinting at him. Any form of a scowl falls off the musician’s face as soon as Geralt plants a chaste, quick kiss to his cheek.

If his lips linger there for a second longer than they should, he doesn’t say anything. But with the soft scowl wiped from Jaskier’s face, light blue eyes flicker down to his lips and he leans forward—

The living room door creaks open and light from the hallway spills in. “Sorry, sorry,” a short red-haired woman stage-whispers, quickly padding across the living room floor and heading for the kitchen.

A groan is ripped out of Jaskier’s throat. “What the _fuck_ , Shan?” he whips his head around to stare at the kitchen.

To her credit, the woman is quick. Geralt’s eyes barely have time to adjust to the change of light. She’s nothing but a blur as she moves. “Sorry!” She scrambles back, arms laden with bottles of water and a few packets of crisps. “Pris wanted snacks.”

Geralt buries his smile into Jaskier’s shoulder. Just over it, he spots Shani looking straight at him. Her pace fumbles slightly. “Hi,” she offers a short smile, before a probably withering glare is sent her way by Jaskier. Within seconds, the woman is gone and the door creaks shut behind her. Jaskier huffs, turning around to rest his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt laughs. “So that’s Shani,” he says, “when do I get to meet Essi?”

“Come over more often and you’ll see plenty of all of my housemates,” Jaskier grumbles, a frown etching into his brow, “they all want to meet you, it seems.”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “Who can blame them? I’m a catch.”

“Hmm. Debatable.” One of Jaskier’s hands goes to his cheek. His thumb gentles over the arch of his cheekbone. Geralt leans into the touch. “I quite like having you to myself for now, if that’s okay?”

He hums. His eyelids have grown heavier over the past hour or so. Every card of fingers through his hair or swipe of Jaskier’s hand across his chest lulled him further and further down. He’s at a risk of being brought back under again by just Jaskier’s hand holding his cheek.

Begrudgingly, and as some sort of slight against himself, Geralt sighs. “I should go.”

Jaskier quirks his lips. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” he asks. “Just to sleep. I would never sully your virtue if you didn’t want to.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. “I have work,” he says. The words hold no mirth to them. Really, no one would care if he turned up late. Or didn’t turn up at all. He would get teased by Lambert and Eskel, sure, but he’s weathered far worse from his brothers. But while it took a while to get Jaskier into his life, things snowballed and now he can feel all semblance of control slipping away from him. If he doesn’t pace this, if it slides out of his hands and he can’t grab hold of it again, something in the shell of his ear reminds him of Yennefer, and how that turned out.

A quick flame that burnt out too quickly – and ended up scalding him in the process.

Jaskier begrudgingly nods, accepting defeat. But he doesn’t move from his sprawled out position. Geralt huffs a laugh, patting the man thigh. “For me to leave, you need to move your legs.”

“All a better reason for me not to move my legs, I guess.” Jaskier’s eyes hold a glint in them.

Geralt lifts his chin. He catches the back of Jaskier’s knees and his lower back and lifts, sliding easily out from underneath the man. As soon as he’s free, his skin turns cold. Even with the hearth still roaring and crackling, the dim light of the room warm, he’s never felt so cold. He might as well be standing outside in the snow.

Jaskier balks. “That’s not fair,” bringing his legs up to this chest, “using your superhero strength like that. Warn a person before you go manhandling them like that.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. With winter settling over the boroughs, the days have gotten pitifully short. An ink-black sky spread out over the city hours ago. Since getting to Jaskier’s house, a thick bank of snow has started to stack against the walls of the house outside. Geralt thins his lips. Stepping out into the cold is literally the last thing he wants to do.

But—

Warm, firm arms coil around him, hands meeting over his stomach. Jaskier presses along his back, hooking his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m free next week if you want to hang out,” Jaskier mumbles, turning into Geralt’s neck.

He tries not to shiver at the soft puff of warm breath against his skin. Everything in him wants to stay. But his hands find Jaskier’s, fingers curling and intertwining. “We’ll meet up somewhere on Saturday, how does that sound?”

A long, drawn-out sigh is buried into his neck. It’s soon replaced by wet lips. “Alright,” Jaskier mumbles, entirely put out. “I’ll have to survive until then, I suppose.”

Geralt turns in his arms. It’s easy enough, with Jaskier loosening his hold just enough so Geralt has room to move. A smile curls along his lip just as Geralt’s hands go to the sides of his face, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. “I need to get the last of Vesemir’s clients done before the holidays,” Geralt assures, placing a light kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “Once they’re dealt with, you’ll have me to yourself for a few weeks.”

Jaskier hums, considering. “Alright,” he lifts his chin. A silent request. Geralt chuckles lightly, dipping down and catching Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. He can feel the other man pulling him in closer, until their fronts are entirely pressed against each other. Jaskier angles his head, trying to deepen the kiss.

How long they stand there, he isn’t sure. But his ears do prick at the sound of footsteps falling overhead, the tell-tale creaking of the staircase outside. Geralt parts them with a soft hum. "Next week?"

Jaskier smiles lazily. "Next week."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Explicit Warning Applies!**
> 
> Read End Notes for the Applying Tags x (or don't, if you want to live life on the edge)

The holiday week is always a weird stretch of time. Nothing really seems to exist outside of their neighbourhood. Shops and stores are closed and not a single soul can be found out on the street. But who could blame them, Geralt thinks as he shakes the last of the snow from his jacket. The roads outside of Kaedwen have frozen over during the night, but not too bad that he couldn’t survive a drive over to collect Jaskier.

His housemates left that morning, getting on one of the last trains out of the borough and to wherever it is that they’re all going. “Of course Shani and her stupid boyfriend would head south for the winter,” Jaskier grumbled as they drove back towards Geralt’s apartment. “Nilfgaard is a shithole but at least it isn’t _cold_.”

“Do you want to go to Nilfgaard, then?”

Jaskier balked, almost shuddering at the thought. “ _No_. Gods, I’d rather weather a whole season with my family than go there.”

Now, Jaskier timidly steps into the apartment, suddenly very reserved. His chatter started to thin as they took the elevator up, with his hands in his pockets and looking around at everywhere and anything else but Geralt. Even when he slips his coat from his shoulders, Geralt spots the way his fingers fidget with the material.

He brushes his hand against Jaskier’s, their fingers twitching at wanting to curl around and interlock. “You’ll be fine,” he says softly, glancing down the hallway to the kitchen. Music and chatter float up to greet them. Coats and boots are left at the door. Jaskier’s bag is slung over his shoulder. Geralt gestures to it. “You can leave it in my room.”

It’s a strange thing to take in at first, having Jaskier in his space. When they do meet up, it’s at different bars and restaurants throughout the boroughs, or in Jaskier’s house. This is the first time the other man has set foot inside Geralt’s apartment. But he stays on Geralt’s heel, following him into his room. He made a point of cleaning it out. The bed has new crisp sheets that are tucked into the mattress corners. His desk is cleared of anything resembling work. And his clothes are all back inside his dresser and wardrobe. For the first time in a long time, the space feels lighter. Like he can breathe that bit better in it.

Jaskier sets his bag down at the foot of the bed. He has enough clothes packed for a few days. But they never agreed on a day to leave. To the best of his knowledge, Shani and her boyfriend are on vacation for almost two weeks. And Essi and Pris won’t stay long in their own homes, wherever they may be.

He watches Jaskier take in the room. In comparison to Jaskier’s house, it doesn’t look as lived in. He’s never been keen on having a lot of stuff. His room isn’t huge, but it isn’t small either. And things taking up space just didn’t seem right to him. But he has a few framed pictures sitting around – old photos of him and his brothers when they were children, the corners starting to fray and wither away. Jaskier gravitates to one of them in particular: one of the few pictures of a young-looking, but exhausted, Vesemir with his three boys hanging off of him. “So this is your family?” Jaskier smiles, holding up the frame.

Geralt’s cheeks colour. “Yeah,” he rasps. “That’s them.”

Geralt leads them into the living room, with Jaskier close on his heel. They meet Vesemir first – with the elder apparently winning this year’s war for the kitchen. Eskel will be off sulking somewhere, readying his critiques of the turkey being too dry or the vegetables being under-seasoned.

The older man seems completely engrossed with what he’s doing, almost missing Geralt’s greeting entirely. He perks up when Geralt clears his throat. “Oh,” Vesemir grunts, setting a spoon down on the counter, “Geralt, you’re back.”

Vesemir’s amber eyes immediately flicker to his son’s side, widening ever so slightly at Jaskier. Geralt had asked just as soon as he had come home from their first date.

 _Would it be alright if Jaskier spent the holidays with us_?

He remembers the crow of Lambert’s laugh. **A few dates in and he’s already meeting the family. Gods help the lad.** It had earned him a firm kick underneath the table.

Eskel nodded. **_It’s alright with me_**.

Vesemir lifts his chin. “This must be Jaskier,” he says, leaving his pots and pans for a moment to hold out his hand to the other man. “I’m Vesemir.”

Jaskier holds himself stock still. “Hello, sir,” he says with a slight firmness to his voice. In all the stories he’s told Jaskier of his father, he’s never painted Vesemir in a bad light. But the man can be stern and imposing, to those who haven’t met him in person.

“We’ll have none of that in this house, lad,” Vesemir huffs, “my pups are well behaved, but not that much.”

Eskel appears out of the hallway. He regards Jaskier with as much caution but curiosity as Vesemir. Eskel, though, is the more approachable of all of them. Even with a smattering of scars claiming half of his face, he never seems to have a problem with easing people. Introductions are quick. Jaskier knows all of their names already – it’s just putting faces to names at this point. Eskel fetches them drinks and leads them into the living room. “Dinner will be another hour at most,” Vesemir says, returning to his domain. Eskel watches out of the corner of his eye, but leaves it.

Lambert keeps Jaskier in the corner of his eye for almost an hour and a half. He was never very trusting of new people when he was younger – something that hasn’t left him now, even as an adult. He’s not shy, like Geralt. He’s just wary. Even when Geralt pointedly keeps an arm strung over the back of the couch, keeping Jaskier drawn against his side while they talk to Eskel about the _Kingfisher_ bar, Lambert watches.

Geralt catches it. He’s known Lambert his whole life. When he turns his attention away from Jaskier’s profile, he lifts his chin to his brother. A silent conversation between the two of them.

**Are you alright?**

_How long will this one be around for?_

**A long time, hopefully.**

_I don’t want you to get hurt again._

**I know.**

Lambert’s lips thin. Taking a measured sip of beer, he stands and wanders over to the kitchen. Jaskier shakes beside him, laughing at something Eskel must have said.

Food lines the length of the table. A roasted golden turkey, carved up already to be picked apart by all of them. Honey roasted carrots sit nearby, with sweet sweated onions and three different versions of cooked potatoes, a basin of gravy. A subtle sweet scent drifts through the air. A dessert sits on the kitchen island, ready to be brought over.

“I’ll cook next year,” Eskel says pointedly, ladling a mountain of potatoes on to his plate. Vesemir sends him a side-ways glance. There’s yet to be a year where the two of them actually get along and work together. But hell will freeze over long before then.

“I guess I’ll have to come back then,” Jaskier smiles, turning to Geralt to gauge a reaction.

“Guess so,” Geralt returns his smile.

* * *

Dinner and dessert float by. For almost two hours, nothing pulls or tugs at him. No shadows lurk out of the corner of his mind, or whispers hissing against the shell of his ear. Geralt’s arm is strung over the back of Jaskier’s chair, the man slightly sitting back into Geralt’s space. Lambert and Eskel lock horns over something. What it is, Geralt hasn’t the faintest of ideas.

He stares at the side of Jaskier’s face. The subtle peak of a cheekbone, the way his cheeks apple and colour when he smiles. Totally oblivious to his audience, Jaskier’s hand seeks his out underneath the table. Palms meet and fingers curl around and entwine with each other.

Warmth blooms in Geralt’s chest, settling and smothering. He squeezes Jaskier’s hand.

* * *

Vesemir laughs into the bowl of his wine glass, struggling to keep a neutral face but failing. His pups argue about anything and everything. They’ve always done, since they were old enough to start wrestling each other to the ground over the smallest of things. His eyes drift over to the other side of the table. To his eldest son. A small smile ghosts his lips. For the first time in a long time, Geralt looks entirely unhaunted. Ghosts have been left at the door, locked out in the hallway. This is the man he misses – the subtle glint in his eye

* * *

_ Yenn: Hope your holidays are faring better than mine _

Attached is a picture of the lower half of Yennefer’s body; her feet stretched out on to an ottoman, with a blanket pooling around her lap. Perched on top of her growing bump is a pint of ice-cream. Just in the background, Geralt spots the remnants of a dinner on the coffee table.

He rolls his eyes, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

 **Geralt: I don’t know. That looks like a pretty good time to me**.

_ Yenn: Triss and Sabrina came over. It was a good night. _

**Geralt: Good. Are you doing okay? How’s the baby?**

_ Yenn: Active. The little creature is keen to make sure I lose all function of my kidneys with how hard she’s kicking them _

_ Yenn: But really, I do hope your night went well. I meant what I said at the clinic.  _

_I want you to be happy_.

It’s difficult to walk that line. He’s teetered on it for so long, stumbling and falling on to the other side of things, on to a darker side. And his days of letting shadows smother him are slowly being left in the past. But even now, having a due date for their child barrelling towards them, trying to figure out what to do when that baby is here: it’s all things that could unclaw his grip on the control he’s managed to achieve.

**Geralt: I know you did. Everything went fine. I’ll talk to you soon.**

There’s no other response. Geralt lets his phone blink to black and sets it on to the bedside table. Roach’s bed is pushed into the corner of the room. The retriever is already curled up and snoring; initially quite put out that Jaskier will be taking up her usual spot on the bed. But a promise of a morning walk and some treats eventually persuaded the dog to, at least for tonight, find sleep somewhere else.

Jaskier steps into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. It’s late. Drinking and talking with Eskel and Lambert went well into the midnight hours. The early morning time blinks at him from a bedside clock. Jaskier shuffles over to the free side of the bed, dressed down in a loose pair of sweatpants and a worn shirt. A wine-flush has settled over his cheeks and the top of his chest. “I suppose because I’ve been drinking, you won’t kiss me,” he grumbles, though it’s light. When Geralt peers up at him, there’s no frown. Only a slight pout.

Geralt hums. The mattress shifts as Jaskier settles down beside him. For the first time in a long time, the other side of his bed has a warm figure taking up space. He’s been close to Jaskier before. Whenever he stayed over at the other man’s house, Jaskier always found some way to lure him to the couch and plaster himself over Geralt. It’s always nice. Soft, warm hands slipping underneath shirts, palming over skin. Legs entangled by the end of a movie or late-night talk.

It’s not so different now. Jaskier settles on to his side, pillowing an arm underneath his head. A small pout still pulls at his lips.

Even matching Eskel and Lambert drink for drink, the man is faring better than the others.

The apartment is quiet. Both of his brothers stumbled into their own rooms long ago. Vesemir has laid claim to the couch. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Geralt is almost afraid to say anything. As if the slightest of sounds would chase it all away.

Jaskier reaches out, trailing his fingers over Geralt’s cheek. His touch scalds. Geralt has to fight a shiver that shakes through his spine. “I like this you,” Jaskier breathes, thumb brushing over Geralt’s bottom lip.

Geralt lifts his chin. “Which me do you like?”

“The happy one,” Jaskier mumbles. His eyes dart between Geralt’s. “There’s no darkness in you anymore.”

A soft laugh leaves Geralt. “It’s there, but it’s not very strong nowadays.” He reaches out; fingers threading through Jaskier’s hair. Even through the smell of wine and sweat, Jaskier is underneath it all. He smells like his apartment. The musk of damask roses and a slight hint of vanilla. Some part of him wishes the smell will bury itself into his bedsheets. That when Jaskier leaves, he can still press his nose into his pillow and smell him.

It’s been a long time since any thought like that has passed through his mind.

Sleep slowly laps over Jaskier. His eyelids droop and his breathing deepens with every pass of Geralt’s fingers through his hair. He sighs. “I still want a kiss,” he mumbles. Most of the words are lost, but Geralt catches their meaning.

His fingers leave Jaskier’s hair – a low whine escaping the other man the second that they do. Geralt hooks a finger underneath Jaskier’s chin, lifting his head just enough to peck a short, chaste kiss on to his lips. Jaskier hums. “That’ll do,” he mumbles, before sleep washes over him.

Before it can take him too, Geralt runs his eyes over the man in front of him. He goes to sleep after a minute or so, a small smile tugging the corner of his lip. 

* * *

Snow stacks on the outside windowsill. Even through the curtain, the sky is piercingly bright, reflecting the small amount of sunlight breaking through the cover. Geralt squints, burying a sigh into his pillow. It’s too early. He has no idea what time it is, but it’s too early. His muscles are still loose and warm, and for the first time in a long time, the voice telling him to just go back to sleep isn’t a cold, malicious one.

The arm slung over his waist tightens.

Peering over his shoulder, he spots Jaskier. Sleep still has him ensnared; his face completely lax, with his hair askew and breathing low and slow. A small frown has etched into his brow, but when his chest and Geralt’s back press firmly against each other, it smoothes away.

Reaching out for the nightstand, Geralt nabs his phone. The screen blinks at him. It’s almost midday. Haphazardly tossing it back, he lets himself melt back into the mattress, the body behind him and the sheets covering the both of them lulling him back to sleep.

Distantly, he can hear the others waking up. A faint smell of breakfast creeps in underneath his doorframe. Toast and bacon and sausage. His ears twitch at footsteps padding around in the hallway outside. Vesemir will be awake. No amount of alcohol can ever seem to give the man a hangover. It all seems to evaporate off in his sleep, and he’s ready for the next day.

Geralt’s brothers will be struggling. He can imagine Lambert, a blanket coiled around him like a cape, shuffling out into the kitchen to claim a plate of food to take back to his room. By now, Eskel will have more coffee in his veins than blood.

The body behind him stretches out. “G’morning,” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s shoulder.

He hums. “Go back to sleep.”

Nothing is waiting for them. If the streets are snowed over, no one will be going anywhere anytime soon. The snowploughs are reserved for Aedirn and Cintra and Temeria. Kaedwen will be locked underneath ice for a couple of days at most. And with neither of Jaskier’s housemates returning until the end of the week, the only thing to do is sleep and eat.

Jaskier’s lips linger on his shoulder, pressing gentle pecks along any stretch of skin that the man can find. Fingers soon join them. “You have scars,” Jaskier’s voice is small, almost skirting around the sentence.

Geralt looks over his shoulder. “Hmm?” His eyes fall to where Jaskier’s fingers map. White lines that mar his skin. Slight ridges of skin from scars that didn’t heal quite right. Geralt turns on to his back, holding out an arm for Jaskier to take up a place along his side. “Got most of ‘em when I was little.”

Jaskier snorts. “Rough-housing?”

“We all tried to out-do each other,” Geralt says. “If one of us could climb a tree, we all wanted to.” He remembers most of his scars. Scraped knees and elbows and palms were the norm. Vesemir spent too much of his time with his boys cleaning out scrapes and icing bruises. When cuts got deeper, when they fell out of trees or off of walls, or caught the edges of tables during chases around the house, trips to the hospital became more frequent.

He was too young to understand it then, but he always wondered why the sour-faced adoption lady that haunted his childhood was always at their house soon after the hospital dismissed them. He and his brothers made Vesemir’s life hell – constantly being screened and re-screened by the adoption service, making sure that the boys were safe under Vesemir’s care. _They’re fed and sheltered and loved_ , he would always growl, _it’s not my fault that they’re **boys**. They’ll get hurt one way or another. I love each of them as if they were my own. Do you really think I would harm them?_

Geralt sighs as Jaskier’s fingers map along his chest. Some of the nastier scars, the ones that have tightly puckered ridges left behind, are from work. Nips and scrapes from tools are frequent. But accidents happen.

Jaskier looks pointedly at him. “I should wrap you in cotton,” he says letting his hand settle on Geralt’s chest.

Geralt’s fingers trail gently up and down Jaskier’s spine. Nights spent coiled around each other told him that Jaskier wasn’t as lithe as he made out to be. Swallowed mostly in knitted jumpers and over-sized jackets, what’s beneath his palm and fingers now is muscle. Jaskier is stronger than he lets on.

A clattering of plates echoes down the hall. At the same time, Geralt’s stomach rumbles. Sleep still skirts around the edge of the room, pulling and tugging at the both of them. But hunger wins out in the end. Geralt pats Jaskier’s back. “There should be some food left,” he grunts, attempting to free himself from Jaskier’s arms. As soon as the other man slips away from him, a cold chill takes its place, prickling Geralt’s skin.

He slept in an old pair of sweatpants last night. Grabbing one of his tees from the ground, he slips it on. He blinks when he realises that he’s the only one standing. “It’s your apartment,” a quiet voice argues. Jaskier buries himself back underneath the sheets.

Vesemir is the only one he meets. The elder makes a non-committal grunt when Geralt rounds the corner. Eskel and Lambert are nowhere to be seen.

When Geralt gets back to his room, it’s with two mugs of coffee – one laced with sugar and milk for Jaskier – and two plates heavy with food. Jaskier sits up against the headboard, blankets pooled over and around his lap. He has thrown on a shirt that slips slightly off of one shoulder. Belatedly, just as Geralt perches on the edge of the bed and hands over Jaskier’s mug and plate, he realises that the tee belongs to him.

“Thank you,” Jaskier smiles lazily, setting the mug on the nightstand beside him. He turns back in time to catch Geralt’s lips in a slow kiss. He almost forgets about the food completely. When Jaskier’s lips leave his, he tries not to push the plate and mug to one side, and follow.

Both of them make space in the nest of blankets and pillows, quietly eating and sipping coffee. Jaskier fidgets with a piece of toast. “I don’t mean to ruin the mood or anything,” he says quietly, testing the words, and Geralt’s expression, “but can I ask you a question? About...about the baby? And your ex?”

Geralt swallows. A few months ago, the thought of picking at the scar might have turned his blood cold. It does, in a way, even now. A certain chill wraps around him. But it’s one he chases off. _Look at his face_ , something kind tells him. _He’s not here to hurt you._

So Geralt nods.

Jaskier clears his throat, looking down at his plate of eggs and bacon and baked beans. “When is the baby due?”

“The beginning of summer.” It’s a fixed date in time. Even now, with snow outside and cold winds lashing against the window, summer looks to be cresting over the horizon. Spring will slip through his fingers too quickly. Now that Yenn has a bump, and their baby – their _daughter_ – has started to move, it reminds him that time is drifting by.

Jaskier nods. “And...Do you have a plan?” He pokes the egg’s yolk with his fork. “Are you and your ex splitting your time with her, or..?”

 _What **is** their plan?_ A loose one is in place. They were going to meet up after the holidays, when both of them had a better idea of what was happening with the baby. There’s a hump of time all parents have to get over before planning anything. He didn’t want to think of it. Neither did she. But something could have happened to their daughter in those first few months.

Something could still happen. But it’s not going to. He’s aware that he can’t stop it. She’ll come when she comes and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. But at the same time, nothing could take her away from him.

Geralt sets his jaw. “She’ll live primarily with Yenn,” he says slowly. “I guess I’ll be around for the first few weeks. Until Yenn can go back to work, whenever that will be. And then the baby will be between the both of us. We’ll share days and nights. But it all revolves around the baby: whatever she needs comes first.”

For a moment, silence sits between them. “Alright,” Jaskier eventually nods.

Geralt tilts his head. “Why are you asking?”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, musing over his words. “I didn’t want to start anything with us when you were...dealing with some stuff.” He abandons his food for a moment. “You’re still dealing with stuff, I know. You’re still going to the therapist and helping Yenn with the baby but, I don’t know, that baby is a permanent fixture in your life now. A life that you’ll have to take care of. I didn’t want to...I don’t know. I didn’t want to take your attention away.”

“You spend a lot of time wondering about what I’m doing and thinking,” Geralt states simply. “What about you?”

“I’m selfish,” Jaskier’s laugh is tight. “I want you all to myself. But I know that you’ll have a daughter arriving in the summer. And she’ll take up your time. And I’m very okay with that.”

“Not many people would be,” Geralt hums. Even sitting apart, their knees brush. The smallest touch has warmth glowing through his skin and muscle.

“You’re happier,” Jaskier replies. “I don’t know if it’s the baby, or something else, but I like it. I’m still here for you if something comes to take a swing at that happiness. But I like your smile. And your laugh. I...I want it to stay like that.”

Geralt regards him for a moment.

Taking a steadying, deep breath, Jaskier speaks. “I’m fairly free with my feelings. I’ve cared for a lot of people. I’ve cared about people for a night. I’ve cared about people for years – even when it wasn’t good for me. But with you,” he frowns slightly, “it feels different. It’s like...It’s like I’ve known you for years. That you’ve always been a part of my life.”

Nothing needs to be said after Jaskier stops talking. Silence sometimes lulls over them quite comfortably. But the air has changed. Geralt’s skin prickles with electricity.

He puts their empty plates and mugs on the nightstand. When Jaskier shuffles back underneath the blankets, Geralt follows. Kissing Jaskier is as natural as breathing. Catching the man’s lips in his, he hums as Jaskier’s tongue swipes along the seam of his lips. The man’s hands palm his shoulders and chest, swiping over the fabric of his tee before drifting down to the hem at the bottom. Jaskier breaks their kiss. “Is this okay?” he breathes, tugging at Geralt’s shirt.

“Absolutely,” Geralt replies, sitting back slightly for the shirt to be wrangled off of him. It disappears into some corner of his room; closely followed by Jaskier’s shirt. When they meet again, teeth nip and pull at lips. Hands wander. Jaskier’s skirt over the expanse of Geralt’s back, his palms bumping over the ridges of old scars and the plains of muscle. When they settle at the small of his back, at the hem of his sweatpants, Geralt’s breath hitches.

He isn’t sure who starts it, but they move together. Hips meeting and dragging, pulling tight breaths out of the two of them. One of Geralt’s hands goes out to hold himself up, his fingers curling into and bunching the sheets in his fist. It’s been a long time since his skin has been set alight. Late-night kisses from Jaskier, mostly on his couch, or in the front of his car just as he leaves the other man home warm his blood. And on the drive home, he has to curl his fingers around the steering wheel to settle his heart.

But now, Jaskier’s legs part around his hips and coil around the back of his thighs; gently pulling Geralt against him.

Fingers skirt along the small of his back, dipping underneath the hem of Geralt’s sweatpants. The first skim of Jaskier’s hand along his ass has him groaning. It’s a light thing, barely wisping over Jaskier’s lips. But he parts them. “Are you sure?” he asks, having to set his forehead against Jaskier’s to catch his breath.

Jaskier nods, his breath hitching when Geralt’s hands suddenly go to his hips. His fingers make short work of drawstrings before he wrangles Jaskier out of his sweatpants and flings them haphazardly somewhere into the room. Jaskier gets him out of his own within seconds.

“Do you have anything?” Jaskier asks, settling back into the bed. “Lube? Condom?”

Geralt grunts, quickly darting away to grab what he needs from the bedside cabinet. He drops them both nearby, almost lost to a sea of blankets. But Jaskier pulls him back on top of him, not happy at all to be left almost bare in a chilling room. Moving together is almost as natural as breathing. When Jaskier kisses him, heat thrums through his entire body.

Everything else ebbs away. Nothing seems to exist outside of the cage Jaskier has moulded around him. Geralt blindly

The uncapping of the lube bottle shatters through the room. The rest of the house is deathly quiet, and the only sounds from both of them have been harsh breaths and muffled moans. Slicking his fingers, he brushes one against Jaskier’s hole. He swallows the moan that rumbles out of the other man. When his finger slips inside, everything stops for a second. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as his head tilts back. The promise of an engulfing, tight heat has his mind scrambled.

“More,” Jaskier gasps breaks through to him. He throws an arm over his eyes and chokes on a new moan. He peers out from underneath his arm, watching as Geralt slips his finger in deeper.

“We can do whatever you want,” Geralt breathes, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s quivering stomach, “tell me.”

He can feel every shiver and hitched breath underneath his lips. His free hand wanders, brushing the side of his stomach, down along the jut of his hip and the meat of his thigh. Sweat starts to bead on his skin. “Just fuck me,” Jaskier groans into the hinge of his arm, “please, I want you so bad.”

Geralt hums. “Been thinking about it?”

“Gods, ever since the roof,” Jaskier’s voice rasps, “how could I not? Have you seen yourself?”

A laugh skirts along Jaskier’s skin. “Go on then,” Geralt hums. “What did you have in mind?”

“Anything,” he replies, “and everything. I want to know every inch of you.”

A second finger joins the first. It wrangles a tighter groan out of Jaskier – one he catches into the hinge of his arm. The apartment is big, but sound travels. He knows as much from Lambert’s conquests ricocheting through the entire apartment. But with his brothers so far gone into their hangovers, an earthquake wouldn’t be able to wake them.

Geralt moves his fingers, plying Jaskier loose and earning more sounds. He’s always liked Jaskier’s voice. Whether he was talking or singing or mumbling something under his breath when they were lain up along his couch. He likes it even better tight with pleasure.

He places a quick kiss on the man’s stomach. Jaskier lifts his hips, moving himself against Geralt’s fingers.

“I’m not going to last,” Jaskier breathes. His fingers tighten in Geralt’s hair, trying to both encourage and halt. Geralt sets his teeth to the ridge of Jaskier’s collarbone. Beneath him, the man’s body shakes and quivers, chasing a release that’s just out of reach.

Geralt’s fingers still.

“ _Gods_. You’re a menace,” Jaskier groans, his legs splayed out to either side. His cock leaks against his stomach. When Jaskier’s own hand wanders near to take care of it, Geralt bats it away. Jaskier whines. “You’re a _sadist_.”

“I’m taking my time,” Geralt amends, dragging his lips close to Jaskier’s cock, but not close enough. Even when the other man lifts his hips, Geralt travels back up towards Jaskier’s stomach. His fingers curl inside the man, dragging out another groan.

When Geralt’s fingers slip out of Jaskier, the other man whines. It’s tight and high and when he reaches out to grab at Geralt’s hand, he tries not to growl at Jaskier pulling at him. The thick plastic smell coats the roof of his mouth.

“So good, Jask,” Geralt groans into Jaskier’s neck, “so good and tight.” He catches the back of Jaskier’s thigh and hauls his leg up, thrusting in deeper.

The sound that comes out of Jaskier is ungodly. If he had a sliver of sense left, he would want to commit it to memory. Instead, Jaskier pits his head back against the pillows. “Fuck me,” he breathes, “ _please_.”

The first thrust as them both gasping. Everything is almost too warm and too much, and not enough at the same time. Jaskier throws an arm around Geralt’s shoulders, keeping their chests pressed together. His cock leaks between them, forgotten about as pleasure thrums through the other man’s whole body.

All that sounds in the room is harsh breaths and muffled groans and slapping skin. Sounds that Geralt hasn’t heard, or even made, in months. All too quickly, a coil tightens in his core. He buries his nose into the juncture of Jaskier’s neck, focusing on getting Jaskier to the edge so they can tumble off of it together. It doesn’t take a lot.

Nails claw into his back. “Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, “Geralt, _please_.”

He wants him. He wants him all the time. Every catch of his nails into skin or breath from his lips only has Geralt’s chest constricting tighter and tighter. He might just suffocate.

Blearily, fucked-out eyes blink up at him. Jaskier’s mouth hangs open slightly. His lips are bitten red. “Are you close?” he breathes, head tilting to the side. His neck is long, already flecked with red marks from bites. Jaskier swallows. “Are you going to come for me?”

Geralt’s grown catches in his throat. His hips quicken, each thrust getting steadily firmer than the last. Jaskier’s legs tighten around him. Guiding. Urging. “ _Jaskier_.”

“Come in me,” Jaskier lulls. “I need it. I need you. _Please_.” Jaskier tightens around him. It’s too much, the heat, the rasp of his voice, the sharp sting of nails along his back. Geralt grabs his hips, fingers digging in and surely leaving bruises to bloom later on. His hips fuck in one last time before he’s coming with a harsh moan. Distantly, he’s aware of Jaskier’s heat tightening and fluttering around him. The other man’s groan is just as wrought out as his own.

Geralt growls lowly in his throat, reaching up to thread his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. He pulls him close, catching him in a kiss that’s mostly teeth and tongue. Jaskier’s hands cup his face, keeping him from pulling away. His lungs protest the lack of air and he begrudgingly pulls away with a short gasp.

Jaskier melts into to the mattress, a hand drifting through the mess splatter along his stomach. Geralt bites down on a groan. Half-hanging off of the bed to grab a nearby tee, he tosses it at the other man. “Clean that up before you kill me.”

Jaskier’s laugh is light and breathless. “It’s payback,” he says, haphazardly cleaning his stomach and, to Geralt’s surprise, some of his chest. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk after that.”

Geralt shuffles over to the man, slipping a hand over the first patch of warm skin he can find. “Good thing you won’t be leaving this bed then, isn’t it?”

Jaskier arches an eyebrow. “What about your brothers? Surely these walls don’t hold secrets?”

“These walls have heard enough over the years,” Geralt hums, leaning down to kiss Jaskier soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags - Smut. It's a long-ass sex scene that I wrote because listen, they've spent 9 chapters skirting around each other and what's this? Oh no, they're snowed in D: Whatever will they dooooo
> 
> \---
> 
> The Boys are having nice things now. 
> 
> Because I won't be nice to them in the chapters to come.


	11. Chapter 11

Snow slows everything down. The end of the holidays is cresting over the horizon and, as much as Geralt has enjoyed bed-bound, only ever leaving to grab food and drinks for the both of them, he would like to get back to the garage. Vesemir braves the roads every so often. Eskel’s protests fall mostly on deaf ears. If Vesemir wants to return home for a few hours then he’s returning home for a few hours, and that’s it.

Still, it doesn’t stop Geralt’s heart from fluttering as he watches the clock, making sure that Vesemir gets back before the snow gets too thick again.

With nothing much to do, Geralt stretching his legs out and sighs. Too many weeks were lost to lying in bed, hiding away from the world outside because it was always too bright or loud. But with someone in the bed with him, it’s easier to lounge in it. He likes waking up on the right side of being too warm, mostly because of a certain singer’s habit of plastering himself to Geralt’s side during sleep.

The blankets sit around them like a nest, staving off the worst of the chill that can sometimes get in between the cracks of the floor. Geralt’s eyelids droop closed. Sleep has become friendlier. It visits him and leaves him be when needed. It’s not like how it was months ago, when it let him stay awake when the moon was out, and refused to let go of him during the day.

The gentle lull of Jaskier’s voice isn’t helping his efforts to stay awake. Jaskier plucks the strings of his guitar, pausing in between to scribble down some notes and chords. His voice is barely a murmur as he tries out new lyrics or melodies.

Geralt pillows his arm behind him, his other just resting on his chest, rising and falling with every deep breath. It’s the most relaxed he’s been in a long time. And he wonders if it’ll stay.

The door to the room gently creaks open. Before Geralt can blink, there’s a pattering of nails on the floorboards and suddenly Roach hops up on to the bed. There’s just enough space for the three of them, with Geralt taking up one side completely, and Jaskier sitting cross-legged against the headboard. Roach pads over to some sliver of free space, turning in a few circles before curling around on herself. Jaskier huffs a short laugh. “I was wondering when you’d show up, darling,” he says softly, reaching out to scratch the top of the dog’s head.

Roach’s tail softly thumps against the comforter in a tired wag.

For a dog that’s losing out on walks because of the snow, she’s become just as lazy as the rest of them. Geralt faintly remembers her as a puppy. She would skirt around the entire apartment, zooming in between legs and crashing into walls when she took a corner too quickly. Or she would sleep. There wasn’t an in-between with Roach. And now, while she isn’t old by any means, it’s a lot to see how much she’s changed.

Jaskier strums a few more chords. The sound is just as soft as everything else; as if he were to play any louder, then the calm quiet of the entire apartment would shatter. He scribbles down more notes, scratching out previous lines completely and drawing arrows back up to the top and the sides of the page. Geralt couldn’t read it even if he tried.

He reaches out. His fingers skirt lightly across Jaskier’s knee. The other man sets his hand over the strings. “Yes?”

“Keep playing,” Geralt mumbles, his eyes suddenly piercing from trying to keep them open.

He’s barely aware of Jaskier’s blink and the slow smile that spreads across his face. A gentle melody flows from his fingers as he goes back to plucking and strumming strings. He hums along, but the music has no rhyme or reason to it. It’s the last thing Geralt hears as he slips off to sleep.

* * *

When the worst of the snow finally begins to melt, Jaskier sighs. He stops tracing patterns into the centre of Geralt’s chest. “Is it bad that I don’t want to leave?” His voice is mostly lost into Geralt’s skin.

Peering down at the man, Geralt regards him for a moment. His knuckles lazily skim up and down Jaskier’s spine, occasionally drifting across his shoulders. “Not really,” Geralt mumbles, turning back to glance out at the cityscape. Kaedwen is nothing more than a collection of high-rise apartment buildings and offices. It’s not as glamorous or lively as Cintra or Aedirn or Temeria. A lot of the people living here are families trying to escape the larger cities, or they were people born here. But the greyscale colour cast outside is oddly beautiful.

Jaskier taps a finger against Geralt’s skin, considering his words. “We’ve only known each other for a short time,” he mumbles, “and already, I think we’re tied together.” He looks up at Geralt, a soft frown pulling at his brow. “Is that weird? That’s a weird thing to say.”

“It’s not weird.” Geralt turns back to him. “You can stay here for as long as you want. Or I could come and stay at your house. Just because the holidays are ending doesn’t mean we won’t get to see each other.” A small silence falls over them. “Even when the baby comes,” he says more quietly, “you’ll still be in my life. You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

It must be what Jaskier was looking for. The words wash over him and he considered them for a moment. He hums, simply settling his head on to Geralt’s chest and slinging an arm over his waist.

* * *

“This is going to be shit,” Lambert grumbles as he snaps the last of the locks open. The last of the snow has been scraped off of the driveway into the garage. The only remnant of the snow nowadays is heavy grey sludge that pools in the gutters along the streets. The street that the garage sits on is a quiet one, mostly lined with convenience stores and tailors and an old post office. Slowly, over the past few days, their owners have been slowly filing back in, lifting shutters and doing business. Unlike the busier boroughs, Kaedwen can afford to go to sleep for the holidays.

Frost has worked its way into the clasps holding the shutters in place. Geralt stands nearby with Eskel, who blows into his palms, rubbing them together to stave off the chill. “You spent all week complaining that you had nothing to do,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “And now you’re complaining that you have to work?”

Lambert grunts as the shutter’s lock snaps and the shutter itself rattles upwards. He dodges some trapped water that flies towards the ground. “I meant that there’s going to be a pile of things to catch up on.”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “And he would complain if there wasn’t a pile of things to do,” he says to Eskel, leading them all inside. It’s still how they left it; an empty floor with tools cleaned and stored away. Their carts are pushed up against the wall, and all of the cables and leads have been coiled up and put away. The lights blink and flicker for a moment, but eventually light up the space.

A list is already made up in his head. Check any voicemails and emails. See if the invoices from before the holidays cleared. Order new stock. Geralt shuffles into the office, turning on the computer before loosening his scarf from around his neck. It’ll take a while for the heaters to start warming up the garage.

But he spots the first car being pulled inside. Eskel wanders over, clapping a hand on the shoulder of one of Vesemir’s oldest friends.

His phone buzzes. Fishing it out of his pocket, he frowns at the screen. Jaskier’s name scrawled across the top. He answers it. “Hey.”

“I know you’re probably in work right now,” Jaskier rasps, “but can you come over?”

There’s something off about his voice. His words are rushed and almost breathed out in a breath. Geralt’s frown only deepens. It’s not a tone of voice he’s ever heard from Jaskier before. “Yeah,” he says, looking around for his keys. “Is everything okay?”

In the background, he can hear voices. One he can recognise as belonging to Priscilla. Another joins it. Essi.

Then there’s a male voice. **_Where is he? He’s home. I know he is!_**

_Just fuck off, Valdo_.

“I’ll explain when you get here just,” Jaskier clicks his tongue, “just come over, please.”

The drive to Redania isn’t a long one. Highways connect the boroughs to each other. Geralt has never gotten over quicker in his life. His knuckles are white as he squeezes the steering wheel, hovering just at the speed limit. Once he turns the corner to Jaskier’s street, he speeds along the road and slams into park just outside the house.

Pris holds guard at the door, her arm, although lithe, doesn’t budge as it blocks the entrance to the house. She spots Geralt over Valdo’s shoulder. Something akin to relief flashes over her face.

Valdo is agitated, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the steps. He climbs up a handful of them before a sharp growl from Pris sends him back down again. Geralt’s ears prick at hissed words underneath his breath. _–Fucker, thinks he can spread shit about me like that. Does he know who I am? What I’ve done for him?! I’ll destroy him—_

Geralt stalks over. “What’s going on?”

Valdo turns on his heel. His gaze travels from Geralt’s head to his boots and back up again. “This has nothing to do with you,” he snips, turning back to Pris. His voice is loud, but waning. It’s cracking over words. He mustn’t have been here long, but he’s been loud about it. “I know he’s in there!”

Priscilla lifts her chin. “And he isn’t coming out to speak to you, asshole. Now _fuck off_!”

It’s still early in the morning. Geralt glances across the street to some mothers shepherding their children to school. Most of them bustle past, shielding their ears. Others slow their pace and linger. Redanian is a cesspool of gossip and gossips. Geralt turns back to Valdo. “Get out of here,” he grunts.

Valdo turns. “It’s none of your fucking business.” His frown only darkens. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

Geralt sets his jaw. “Jaskier’s boyfriend,” he growls, stalking towards Valdo. They couldn’t be more different in size. Even though Geralt is only a fraction of a head taller, he’s built bigger. Valdo is slim and narrow and one rough wind could easily push him over. “He doesn’t want to talk to you. So do as Pris says, and fuck off.”

Valdo, to his credit, holds his nerve. Even as Geralt steps into his space, a wry smirk slithers across his lips. “Oh,” he drawls. “Julian has a new bodyguard, so he thinks he can say whatever he likes now. Is that it?”

Shani appears at the door. Both of the women must have just woken up, still in sleep shorts and too-large shirts. Shani pulls her cardigan firmly around herself. “Valdo it’s too early for your fucking nonsense, so piss off and leave him be.”

“No!” Valdo snaps. “He seemed very brave saying whatever he liked about me at the _Kingfisher_ last night. If he’s got something to say to me, say it to my face.”

Geralt frowns. There was a gig at the _Kingfisher_. The owner commissioned Jaskier to stay and play more gigs. He’s listened to a few songs. Most of them are about love – the age-old advice to writers to _write what you know_. And he supposes that Jaskier is allowed to write a few ballads about how full his heart is and how everything seems bright and warm. But he still has a sharp tongue. He sings about past loves; ones who have cut him loose and thrown him out to sea.

He’s written a song or two about Valdo. The muse of the song is thinly veiled. Anyone who has even heard of Valdo Marx and Jaskier Pankratz will know well that the song is about their breakup.

When Valdo Marx ripped out Jaskier’s heart in front of all the people that he knew, and threw it off of a building.

A growl crawls up Geralt’s throat. He doesn’t touch the man. Vesemir taught him to be mindful with his rage. Sometimes it wiggles its way out and he needed to know how to temper it. But now, he can feel how his hands shake by his side. He fists his hands, but they still tremble.

“Listen to me, alright,” Geralt lowers his voice so it’s just the two of them. He leans into Valdo’s space, setting his lips near the man’s ear. He smells of money; an overpowering aftershave, the scent of leather from his jacket. It’s all too much. “He doesn’t have anything to say to you. If I’m to believe half the things he told me about you, then you’re no saint to begin with.”

Valdo’s face pales slightly. Whether it’s Geralt’s words or his manner, he doesn’t know. But one of them seems to be working.

He glances up at Priscilla. Her head is cocked. “If you think so lowly of him, why the fuck do you care about what he says?” Geralt snaps at the man. “Who’s going to listen to him; if you think that he doesn’t have an audience?”

Valdo’s voice is gone. Whatever had made him glower and stalk shrinks away.

“Whatever your problem is with him, get over it,” Geralt growls. “I don’t want to see you anywhere near him ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

The man’s jaw pulses. His teeth grind together.

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “Do I make myself clear?”

Silence stretches out between them for a moment. Valdo sighs sharply. “ _Yes_.”

“Good.” Geralt glances up at the sky. Heavy grey clouds sit over the borough. “Looks like it’s going to rain. It’s a long walk to the tram station. Better hurry.”

He stays rooted to the ground until Valdo slinks fair enough away. He’s a couple of houses down the street before he lets his fists relax. His knuckles sting when blood starts to flood back into them, chasing away how white they turned.

“Holy shit,” Pris whistles as Geralt slips past. The shimmer in her eyes almost shakes away the rage wringing his blood. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Jaskier sits at the top of the stairs, arms crossed and gnawing his thumbnail. He shuffles to the side when Geralt climbs up and sits beside him. “I would have dealt with it myself,” he mutters around the edge of his thumb. “But he, I don’t know, he was being really aggressive, and I thought-”

Geralt plants a kiss to his temple. “It’s alright,” he mumbles. An arm coils around Jaskier’s shoulders, bringing him closer. Downstairs, he can hear the faint whispers of Shani and Pris talking amongst themselves. It’s mostly threats; plans to go to _Sonatina_ and trash it. Geralt clicks his tongue. “I don’t have enough money to bail the two of you for vandalism charges, you know,” he throws downstairs.

There’s a small pause.

“You’re no fun,” Shani groans.

Jaskier is tight underneath his arm. Gentle tremors wrack through his body. He turns back to the other man. “Do you need anything?” Geralt asks lowly.

Jaskier shakes his head. He stares off into the distance, but not really focusing on anything. He recognises the look. It used to live in his eyes for months. He clicks his tongue. “You’re alright,” he soothes, rubbing Jaskier’s back. “You’re safe.”

The protests are on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue. He knows they are.

_He’s only gone because you’re here._

_He’ll still come to the_ Kingfisher _, or wherever I play._

_What if he says something to the others?_

_What if they believe him over me?_

The bottom of the stairs creak. Geralt blinks down at Priscilla, staying firmly away from the two of them, but she holds out a bottle of water and some oat bars. Her eyes dart over to Jaskier. _Make sure he drinks this and eats something_. Geralt takes them with a small nod.

Pris pads away, disappearing into the kitchen.

Jaskier inhales sharply. “I’m fine,” he says tightly, attempting to stand up.

Geralt makes a sound in the back of his throat. “You’re not,” he says. He’s careful about his voice, and where his hands are. He holds out the water and the bar. “At least take these. Please?”

Jaskier’s face is mostly blank, but he stares at Geralt’s hand. He nods stiffly, grabbing the stuff, before shuffling down the hall towards his room.

The click of the bedroom door is deafening.

* * *

If Jaskier didn’t bring it up, then he didn’t ask. That was a rule he made with himself when both of them started baring more and more of themselves to each other. They knew about each other’s families, about their friends. Sometimes they showed their scars.

Valdo Marx and whatever had led Jaskier to that roof were something else. They had broken up. That’s what Jaskier told him on that first night, and it’s what everyone else believed. Valdo Marx bared his teeth and ripped Jaskier’s heart out for all to see.

He never asked about the why. It wasn’t his business, he supposes. He told Jaskier about his own breakup; why they ended things when they did. They didn’t work out. And that was the essence of it. If he were to sit the other man down and explain every little thing that led to their eventual breakdown, it could easily take hours.

So he never asked Jaskier about his own why.

But he hears whispers. Not from Jaskier, but from others. Those who used to flit around social circles with Valdo Marx at the centre. Some whispers are more scalding than others. Someone cheated, or got cheated on. Someone didn’t feel like they were the centre of attention anymore. Someone was a bit too drunk one night and after a particularly vicious argument, well, eyes started to wander—

Sometimes Jaskier let things slip. When he writes songs, the initial lyrics that come out of him are raw and visceral. When Geralt hears those, he tries to stop himself from going to Cidaris and rooting Valdo out himself. Although he’s never asked outright, Geralt’s mind has built up scenarios.

He pads down the hallway, pausing just outside Jaskier’s door. His knuckles hover over it for a second. He knocks softly. “Jaskier?”

There’s a sharp sniff. “What?”

Geralt lowers his head. “Can I come in?”

A silence seems to fall over the entire house. Geralt’s ears prick at the tell-tale creak of a floorboard. The door to Jaskier’s room creaks open, just enough for half of the man’s face to peer out. A single blue scrutinises him for a moment.

The door opens and Jaskier steps back into the room.

Geralt steps in slowly, letting the door click shut behind him. The other man ambles over to his bed, settling down against the headboard and drawing his knees up to his chest. His bedsheets are ruffled and strewn around, with thicker throws hanging over the edge and pooling on the floor. A few items of clothing are strung about on the ground. Geralt doesn’t even notice at first. Objectively speaking, even though Jaskier’s bedroom is fuller with furniture and decorations, it’s always been cleaner than his.

Geralt pads over to the bed, perching almost an arm’s reach away from the other man. He still has an expression on his face that Geralt can’t quite make out. It skirts on nervous and anxious and anger. Geralt sighs. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” he mumbles, “but I need to know if this is going to be a regular thing.”

It won’t be, if Valdo Marx knows what’s good for him. If he’s smart, he won’t even breathe in Jaskier’s direction again.

Jaskier chews his lip, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I don’t think so,” he eventually says. “But I didn’t think he would do something like that anyway. He...He’s more of _whispering behind your back_ , not an _almost breaking down your front door at ten in the morning_ kind of guy. ”

Geralt hums. “This didn’t come out of nowhere, did it?”

“He doesn’t like people bitching about him,” Jaskier mumbles, picking at the hem of his jeans. A sudden sharp laugh puffs out of him. “People talk shit about him all the time. I’m just the one who wouldn’t keep it quiet anymore.”

Geralt shuffles closer. Jaskier’s legs spread out, going to the side, letting Geralt take up a small sliver of space just beside the other man. He reaches out slowly, drawing his fingertips over Jaskier’s hip. “You’re still worried.”

“I’m worried that he’ll say something to the wrong person,” Jaskier replies. “I don’t want to be singing in bars for the rest of my life. I want to do something greater with my music. And I can’t do it if Valdo Marx is in bed with half of the producers of the boroughs.”

“Valdo has a reputation. He might be fucking half of the boroughs, but he isn’t well-liked,” Geralt says. Most know about it; but as Jaskier said, not many people speak of it too loudly. “If these producers do hear something, who are they going to believe? The sleazy guy running the backend of every person worth knowing, or the guy who, in a short space of time, amassed an audience of fans and put his performances up online.”

People love Jaskier. In the few gigs he’s been to, Geralt has watched him stop in between songs to have conversations with people in the crowds. He encourages them to sing along, or dance if they feel like it. He’s pulled in more people into the _Kingfisher_ than anyone else – people that will follow him if, or when, he moves on to another venue.

And from the sounds of it, Valdo Marx just has more enemies than friends. Enemies that are only hanging on to him for his influence. And if the wrong thing ever came out about him, those threads would be cut loose faster than anyone could blink.

Jaskier lets out a shaking breath. “I’m sorry for calling you,” he mumbles, rubbing his hands over his face. “I just, I didn’t know who to-”

“-It’s fine,” Geralt assures. “I’m always a call away.”

When Jaskier’s hands come away, his eyes are red. His breathing evens out. The faintest of smiles even ghosts his lips as he seems to take stock of the morning’s events. When he speaks, his voice is still small. “Do you need to go back to work?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “I can text Coën to cover the office. Why?”

“I don’t want you to leave just yet,” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt toes off his boots, leaving them and his jacket abandoned on the floor, before climbing up beside Jaskier. Slouching against the wall, he coils his arms around Jaskier as the other man entwines them both. Heat blooms through him whenever Jaskier moulds around him. He fits against Geralt so perfectly it’s like he was always meant to be there.

Beside the bed, Geralt spots a half-emptied bottle of water and the crumpled wrapped of the oat bar. His fingers thread through Jaskier’s hair. The other man has spent months chasing away Geralt’s shadows – and learning about why they were cast in the first place. Even though he doesn’t know everything, because some scars are still too sensitive and raw to bear, he knows enough.

And yet he doesn’t know an awful lot about Jaskier’s life before he came into it. He knows what Jaskier has allowed him to know. He would never drift anywhere further into those waters.

But the man coiled around him looks afraid. There’s a look in his eyes that Geralt has never seen before, and he doesn’t like it at all. He’ll spend his time now trying to chase it away, but it might come back.

Jaskier’s hand curls on top of his chest. “I can feel you worrying,” he mumbles against Geralt’s shirt. “Why are you worrying?”

Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. It’s slightly damp and there’s a soft smell of lavender coming off of the man’s skin. Geralt sighs. “I’m worrying that you’re worrying.”

“Then we’ll be in for a terrible time together,” Jaskier’s laugh is tight and dry. “It’ll be the blind leading the blind.”

Geralt fishes his phone out of his pocket. He taps out a quick text to Coën.

**Geralt: Something came up. Won’t be back for a while. Could you cover the office?**

Coën’s reply comes back within a few minutes.

_ Coën: Sure thing – I’ll take repayment in the form of 10 minutes of playtime with Roach.  _

With everything sorted, Geralt tosses his phone up on to the bedside table. Jaskier’s bed is made up of mostly pillows and throws and blankets. When the wind starts to get the slightest of chills, Jaskier hauls out everything he can find in order to stay warm and comfortable. And lying here now, Geralt feels like he’s about to sink right through the mattress.

He even thinks that Jaskier might have slipped off to sleep with how deep his breathing gets. But after a few minutes, his hand ghosts over Geralt’s chest. His palm eventually settles over Geralt’s heart. “I want to tell you things,” he says quietly. The words almost don’t reach Geralt’s ears – he has to strain to hear them. Jaskier sniffs. “But I’m afraid of what you’ll think.”

Geralt sighs. “I won’t think any less of you for anything.”

Jaskier’s laugh is breathless and tight. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“Have you killed someone?”

“Maybe. You don’t know.”

“Well, you probably had a good reason.”

There’s a small huff of a chuckle buried into his chest. Jaskier’s fingers fidget with the fabric of his shirt, playing with it while the other man mulls over and tastes his words.

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “When I met Valdo, I...I wasn’t in a great place. I was going through a lot of shit with my family and, just, I wasn’t in a good headspace. So when he asked me out, I don’t know, it’s like everything seemed to get better. He was nice. Nicer than anyone else in Oxenfurt. When I told him I wanted to start a music career, he brought me to parties and gatherings that producers were having. He always promised that he would mention me to them.” A small frown etches into Jaskier’s brow. He stares over to a corner of the room, but not focusing on anything in particular. As if the scenes were playing out in front of him. “I don’t know where it went wrong, but it did. Gods above, now it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion.”

Geralt’s fingers trail up and down Jaskier’s back. When the words stutter to a stop, he flattens his hand against Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I knew that I should have left when it started getting bad,” Jaskier whispers. “He...he would say things. They-They weren’t pleasant. I said things too. I knew how to hold my own against people who wanted to hurt me. I had spent my whole life dealing with shit at home: I wasn’t going to let him treat me like shit too. Not in a place where I felt happy.”

A tight sound leaves Jaskier. “But I _stayed_. I want to go back and punch myself in the face. I want to grab my own arm and drag myself away.”

He felt the same when he started remembering fragments of his life with Yennefer. When it all started to break down, and both of them knew it but kept going, because maybe they could do something to hold it together, Geralt wanted to go back in time and haul himself away from the fire before it could burn him. Nothing could have been done.

Geralt sets his chin on the crown of Jaskier’s head. Something constricts his heart. It always does whenever Jaskier bears his scars to him. When things slip and the other man gets quiet, or tries to change the subject, it’s hard to swallow.

“I was so afraid that I left him, he’d turn people against me,” Jaskier mumbles, “it was like he held my dreams in his hand, and he could crush them at any time.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. He kisses Jaskier’s head. “He has no power over you now,” he says into Jaskier’s hair. “He won’t bother you anymore.”

He spends most of the morning there; trying to chase the last of anxiety and fear out of Jaskier’s bones. When the other man starts to relax against him, slouching and curling around his side, slinging an arm over Geralt’s middle and tugging him closer, Geralt breathes a bit easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😐


	12. Chapter 12

“Geralt?”

He blinks. Nenneke’s office suddenly returns to him; the ticking of a nearby clock perched on a wall, the numbing scent of incense lolling through the air, Nenneke’s kind eyes watching him carefully. The woman tilts her head slightly, her pen poised over her notepad. “Are you alright?”

Geralt swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

She knows better than to chase a rabbit that just wants to be back in its burrow. The defeat registers on her face as she sighs, nods stiffly, and crosses her legs. “So,” she says with a different tone, “what have you been up to? How were the holidays?”

“Good.” The easiest thing he’s been able to say; because it’s true. And even though it’s been almost two weeks since, he still lingers on the memories of food and laughter and waking up warmed by Jaskier’s whole body sleeping on top of him. “I spent it with my family, like we do every year.”

Nenneke nods. A ghost of a smile flashes over her lips. It always does when Geralt offers up something positive.

“My, uh,” Geralt rubs the back of his neck. Tendrils of long, grey hair fall down and tickle his nape. Geralt clears his throat. “Jaskier was there. He...He spent it with us. At my house. With my brothers, and my dad.”

At that, Nenneke lifts her chin. She blinks. It’s not easy to shake the older woman. Caring for most of the boroughs has left her hardened and unshakable. She’s heard it all before. It was a comfort to Geralt, during the first few weeks, when he bore scars that looked more like mangled knots of flesh that fading lines. She never flinched away from him when he shared what the whispers or shadows told him.

But now, there’s a surprised look on her face. “Did he?” she asks slowly. “Was it at your request?”

“Yeah, uh,” Geralt stammers. “His housemates were going to be away, and he doesn’t really spend time with his family. He said that he was going to be alone so...” Geralt shrugs.

Nenneke nods slowly. She jots something down on her notebook. She’s kind to avoid doing it whenever he’s speaking. It’s a strange thing; to be bearing your soul to someone and they’re concentrating on their notes.

He can imagine the file she’s amassed for him. How he hasn’t been sanctioned yet, he doesn’t know. Surely it means that maybe he’s not as bad as he thought he was. It was dark, having the shadows trying to smother him in his sleep. But most of them have been chased away.

The clock ticking nearby keeps track of time. There’s a cathedral nearby, and the droll toll of the bells have been showing him just how much time has drifted by. Looking out of a nearby window, the sun has managed to break cloud-cover and spill out light on to the streets. People still walk by, bundled in jackets and scarves and hats. While the sun might be out, slightly dulling the bite of the wind, it’s still cold.

“You seem distracted.”

He turns back to Nenneke. The woman regards him with a soft look.

Geralt’s cheeks colour. “Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

Nenneke lifts her chin. “What’s on your mind?” she asks, setting her notebook and pen down on the wooden coffee table between them.

Geralt chews the inside of his cheek, reaching for words. It’s like his fingers always just skim them before they flutter away. “My...Jaskier, he um, he told me something recently.” He frowns slightly. “It’s not my place to say but...He told me some things about, about his last relationship. And, I don’t know, I’m worried, I guess.”

Nenneke hums. “It’s normal to be worried about someone you care about,” she says, “especially if what he told you is worrying.”

“I want to help him,” Geralt breathes. Jaskier’s words followed him home that night. Even when he offered to stay, Jaskier assured him that he would be fine. _You’re always a call away, remember_? he smiled, kissing Geralt at the door before slipping back inside.

The bells outside toll again. The end of their session is near. And while he’s alright to leave, to step out into the streets and try and be normal for a week until he’s back here again, he needs to air some last thoughts. “I feel like I’m looking after everyone else,” he says after a time. “And it’s fine. Yennefer needs me for the baby. And the baby will need me for her whole life. And Jaskier...I love him, of course I’ll help him with whatever he needs. But, I’m just worried...”

“That it might get to be too much?” Nenneke offers.

Geralt lips thin. He nods.

Nenneke sighs. “It’s normal to feel that way,” she says softly. “You need to look after yourself, first and foremost. People can’t use you as a crutch if you’re not strong enough to support them.”

She scribbles something on to a piece of paper. “Give this to your boyfriend,” she says, handing him the folded up piece of paper, “and tell him that if he needs to talk to someone impartial, I’m here.”

* * *

A quiet Jaskier is one of the worst things in the world, Geralt thinks.

He watches the man mull over the piece of paper, his eyes scanning over the phone number again and again.

Time stretches on and the air becomes too thick to even breathe. Downstairs is full of life, with music playing in the kitchen as Essi and Priscilla cook dinner. Shani let him in, almost dragging him inside and out of the rain. Since taking his first step inside the house, the rain-chill has been chased away by soft lights and a warming smell of bolognaise and garlic bread cooking in the kitchen. Soft murmurings of the downstairs conversations float up, slipping in between the cracks of the floorboards.

Jaskier’s room, in comparison, is deafeningly quiet.

“You don’t have to,” Geralt breaks the silence, after a time, “but...the help is there if you want it. I know you had that weird therapist before. But she’s not like that. She’s kind. She’ll listen.”

Eventually, a ghost of a smile softens Jaskier’s lips. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbles, setting the piece of paper on his nightstand before flopping back on to the bed. It’s bigger than Geralt’s, able to fit both of them comfortably. There’s even a stretch of space to the side when the two of them press up together. As soon as Jaskier sets his back against the bed, returning to his nest of pillows and blankets, Geralt crawls up beside him.

Jaskier hums as Geralt lays claim to half of his body, settling down against his side and pillowing his head on Jaskier’s chest. “How was your session?” he asks, combing his fingers through Geralt’s hair. He’s taken to keeping it down whenever he’s at Jaskier’s house. The other man likes threading his fingers through it, or leaving small braids whenever he sits in between Jaskier’s legs.

Geralt hums. “It was fine,” he says. _We spoke about you. I want you to get help too_. He clamps his jaw shut to stop it from coming out. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Geralt tightens his arm around Jaskier’s middle. “Have you heard anything from...?”

 _Valdo_.

“No,” Jaskier mutters. “Thank the gods. I think you might have scared him away for good.”

Geralt hums. Jaskier’s touches can do so much to him. When he combs through his hair, lightly brushing his fingertips along scalp, Geralt’s eyelids grow heavy and it’s a struggle to stay awake. He’s never slept better when Jaskier is coiled around him.

Jaskier stares up at the ceiling. A short huff of a laugh leaves him. “What was it he called you? My bodyguard?”

Geralt’s mouth twitches into a smile, glancing up at the other man. “You can take care of yourself.”

“Yes, but I like the idea of you protecting me,” Jaskier hums, leaning down to kiss Geralt. It’s slow and deep and pulls a noise out of Geralt’s throat. Jaskier’s hands are already travelling, skimming over his arm and raising gooseflesh along his bared skin.

Geralt lifts himself up slightly, hovering over Jaskier and deepening their kiss. Jaskier moans into it, tilting his head and wrapping an arm around Geralt’s shoulders to pull him closer. In tees and sweatpants and jeans, their skin gets warm too quickly. At the first swipe of Jaskier’s tongue into his mouth, Geralt breaks away. “And when you said you want me to take care of you?” he rasps, their lips brushing.

Jaskier leans forward, but whines when Geralt pulls back slightly with a coy smirk lolling his lips. “Oh, in every way, I imagine,” Jaskier replies. His hands go to Geralt’s shoulders, palming over muscle as they travel along and down to his chest. Jaskier marvels quietly. “You’re so strong.”

“You’re strong too.”

“Yeah, but gods alive Geralt, have you seen yourself?” Jaskier’s hands drift down. His fingers curl and grab the hem of Geralt’s jeans. Their hips grind together for a time, earning breathless sounds out of both of them. Jaskier’s fingers are dexterous things as they make short work of Geralt’s belt and the buttons of his jeans.

Bracing his arms on either side of Jaskier’s head, Geralt leans down, nipping along the column of his neck. His teeth bare at the warm, tight grip suddenly slipping over his cock. “Jask-”

Jaskier hushes him. His free hand skims along Geralt’s side, the touch lifting gooseflesh. “Always so good for me,” Jaskier hums, stroking and splaying his legs a bit to get Geralt closer. Geralt groans when Jaskier tightens his grip slightly – he’s already learning what earns the right kind of noises out of him.

In a baggy tee and sweatpants that Geralt is pretty sure is his own, he lets his hands dip underneath fabric and skim over Jaskier’s skin. He’s always so warm. His scent has started to sink into everything Geralt owns. He can still smell Jaskier in his sheets, or in his grey hoodie that he wore for most of his stay over. Drawing a lungful of scent, Geralt scrapes his teeth along the length of Jaskier’s neck. He’s managed to uncover a few of Jaskier’s hotspots; areas on his body that has him shivering and moaning. His neck is particularly sensitive – if how he tilts his head to the side, letting Geralt do what he likes, is anything to go by.

It’s nothing but quick, yet firm, touches. Having the both of them chase a release that’s just out of reach. Anything Jaskier can do to him, Geralt can return it ten-fold.

His core starts to tighten as Jaskier’s hand quickens. Half-choked moans ebb out of Geralt, most of them smothered into Jaskier’s skin. He’s close. He tries to urge the same from the other man, but—

The floorboards of the hallway creak, shattering through the air. Footfalls pause just outside Jaskier’s door. “Dinner’s ready,” Priscilla says.

Geralt stills. Jaskier’s hand is still around him, tight and warm and just enough. With an almost feral grin, Jaskier starts stroking again. Geralt can’t slam his jaw shut quick enough. He buries his face into Jaskier’s neck, hoping that Pris can’t hear.

“We’ll be down in a minute,” Jaskier calls over Geralt’s shoulder. The fingers on his back scrape just enough to have Geralt shivering.

For a moment, it’s deathly quiet. After what feels like a damn eternity, Pris goes back down the hall. When his ears twitch at the tell-tale creak of someone on the staircase, Geralt blows out a harsh breath into Jaskier’s neck. “I’m going to kill you,” he snarls. One of his hands travels; slipping into Jaskier’s sweatpants and skimming the globe of his ass. His fingers trail down to Jaskier’s hole. At the first brush of a dry finger against his rim, Jaskier’s eyelids flutter shut.

“At least my last moments would have been fun.” A faint smile dusts his lips – one that disappears when a long moan wrings out from his throat. Jaskier suddenly moves off to the side, reaching into his bedside cabinet. After a few seconds of rooting around, he shoves a half-empty bottle of lube into Geralt’s chest. He fumbles with it for a moment – Jaskier’s touch on him is _incredibly_ distracting – but manages to pour enough lube on to his fingers and toss the bottle to some corner of the bed, swallowed by the rumpled sheets.

The hand Jaskier has on Geralt’s cock is dry, but twirling around the head, he gathers some dribbling early release into his palm and slips back down the shaft. Jaskier’s hands will be the death of him, one way or another.

The coil in his core starts to tighten again. Moving his hips with Jaskier’s strokes, he chases release. His fingers dance and tease. Jaskier’s eyes always seem to glass over when he’s close. Geralt kisses him, moaning at the slide of their tongues against each other.

The second the tip of his finger presses inside, the arm Jaskier has strung over his shoulders tightens, pressing the man closer until his moan brushes Geralt’s ear. “In me,” he rasps, tightening his hold on Geralt’s cock. “Fingers, cock, whatever you want, just get something in me _now—_ ”

He manages to get two knuckles in before Jaskier’s heat tightens around him and wetness splatters their abdomens. Watching the man below him almost seize, with not a lot of work done to wring an orgasm out of him, Geralt’s core tightens before he has to lean down and bury a choked-off groan into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier’s chest trembles as he laughs. Geralt manages to collect just enough strength to peer up and glare at the man. A mistake on his part, really; he meets Jaskier’s eye just in time to watch slightly agape as the man licks spend off of his fingers.

A tight whine claws up Geralt’s throat. “Have mercy,” he pleads.

Jaskier’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.

* * *

The _Scarlet Cardinals Bar_ in Toussaint hires Jaskier for a few weeks. Word of his _Kingfisher_ performances reached into neighbouring boroughs and before long, Jaskier’s phone was constantly pressed to his ear. Geralt tried to hide a smile as Jaskier scrambled out of the living room, taking a call from another booking agent. The movie that played on the TV was long forgotten about. Jaskier hadn’t even been in the room for most of it. Geralt stretched, wincing slightly at how his joints crack and his muscles protested. Most of that afternoon, and a lot of the evening, were spent on the couch, nestled in a nest of blankets and throws and pillows. When Jaskier left, the room got colder.

Geralt poses the question of a night out to his brothers. Before he can even blink, they all pile into Geralt’s car and head for Toussaint. They collect Coën on the drive over. “What about your boyfriend?” Lambert asks from the back, shuffling over so Coën can slide in beside him. Eskel shoots him a harrowing glare through the rear-view mirror.

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “Shani and her boyfriend took him over earlier,” he says simply. He had offered his own car, seeing as though Jaskier had instruments and equipment to bring over to the bar and have it set up before the gig. But Jaskier turned it down. _I’ve taken up enough of your time already._

The words still play on his mind, reeling around and around, never quite settling.

But when they pull up outside the _Cardinal_ , the feeling in his gut is replaced by something else. The Cardinal isn’t the biggest bar in Toussaint, but it does have a vibrant life to it. Stepping inside, Geralt’s surprised by the number of people already covering the bar’s counter, and how many tables and booths are already taken.

While Lambert and Coën throw an arm around each other and drift off into the sea of people, Eskel stays by his side. “Everything okay?” he asks.

There’s a constant murmuring of everyone speaking; noise that lapses over them and almost drowns them out. A few months ago, he might have tucked tail and run. He remembers the nights when he wanted to. But he glances over at Eskel, the man’s ocean-coloured eyes looking back at him with concern laced through them. Geralt offers a small smile. “I’m fine,” he says.

Eskel nods slowly, but ultimately drops the probable follow-up check that was on his tongue. The two of them follow Lambert and Coën, the men managing to squeeze and break through the crowds gathered at the bar. Lambert flags down a server. Glancing over to Geralt, he lifts his chin. “Beer?”

Geralt nods. A steady stream of people flows into the bar. Geralt keeps an eye on the door. Most of them make their way straight to the bar counter, flagging down servers and looking for drinks. The stage is pushed into one corner of the room, already lain out with equipment and a mic-stand. Geralt’s stomach twists. Something always seems to run through him whenever Jaskier is brought up. When Lambert berates him about the other man, he tries to brush away the soft blush warming his cheeks. Jaskier even steals his ability to speak. If some of their time together is spent in silence, it’s because Geralt often can’t find the words to fill the silence.

There’s a rumble through the crowd. Glancing over his shoulder, Geralt’s stomach seizes when he spots Jaskier stepping out on to the stage, armed with his guitar strung over his shoulder. He gives the crowd a dazzling smile, even laughing breathlessly as a few people from the back cheer and whoop. “Gods above,” Jaskier chuckles, doing the last bit of fine-tuning to his guitar, “well I could get used to welcomes like that.”

Eskel nudges his side. The man leads them over to a booth that one of Coën’s friends had claimed since getting there. It’s a tight fit, but the four of them and Coën’s friends manage to squeeze in. Geralt is the last one to slide in – mostly because of Eskel’s engineering. If Geralt wants to leave, he can. He won’t have to clamber over people to get out.

Not that he would want to leave. He looks to the stage and his breath almost catches in his throat when he finds Jaskier looking back at him. Bright blue eyes made even brighter by the lights on stage drift over everyone’s head, almost forgetting that the space between the stage and the booth is crammed with people all vying for his attention. Jaskier’s smile changes into one Geralt knows is just for him – the smile that curls over Jaskier’s lip when they’re curled around each other on Jaskier’s couch, or lying facing each other in bed.

Something must snap Jaskier out of it – the whistling of the crowd, maybe. He glances down at his guitar, his fingers skimming and plucking a few strings. “Right, thank you all for coming,” he smiles, catching the eye of someone in the front of the crowd. “This first song is a classic. If you’ve been following me for a while, then you’ll know this one. And I’m sorry. No one should have to put up with me for that long.”

A rumble of laughter washes through the crowd. Even those sitting off to the side in booths, not paying any particular attention to the stage, drift in and out of Jaskier’s performance.

The table and those around it seem to slip away. Even Eskel, who is pressed against his side, drifts into oblivion as Geralt watches Jaskier perform. Armed with a guitar and a microphone, the man is different from the one he left in his house last night. The man whose eyes were still a small bit distant and worry wormed through his body. Valdo Marx’s ghost is haunting him, and no amount of venting will shake it.

It doesn’t stop Jaskier from performing though. With a leering smile snaring the corner of his mouth, he sings his most recent songs. New ones that were penned feverously in the middle of the night, when Geralt slept peacefully beside him. He knows their tunes. Jaskier is constantly humming under his breath, or tapping rhythms out on his thigh or crossed arm or on the surface of a table.

But Geralt hasn’t heard much of the words.

When Jaskier’s lips part, everything stills around him.

“ _...oh, and I finally caught a coma  
Oh and my irony forged an omen_

 _Years ago  
I coined the portmanteau  
I tore the words you sewed  
Thought that I would shape it  
It’s all in the cadence  
Hard enough to say it all_-”

And Geralt watches people sway along to an almost siren’s voice lapping through the bar.

Songs slip by as Jaskier lulls the audience with him. Voices echo and merge with his as they sing through his older songs, ones that have been recorded in his room and put up on websites. The first few phones are lifted up into the air to record the gig. The sheer white lights from the screens break through the darkness of the bar.

Jaskier sets his lips near the microphone, gentling strumming chords and notes. Practised fingers pluck melodies together. He catches a few eyes in the sea in front of him, offering gleaming smiles at a few people.

_“...And lo-  
It’s painful to watch, no?  
Yeah, I know  
It’s lazy to be so--_

_Abrasive.  
I made it.  
Brushed my teeth in your basin.  
‘It’s Danish!’  
Amazing.  
‘They even make it in paisley!_’”

He doesn’t know how many songs lap by. Jaskier talks in between each of them, having short conversations with people in the first few rows as he takes measured sips of water.

When more phone screens blink through the crowd, suddenly a night sky of stars lies between the stage and Geralt. Over the lights, Jaskier looks out to him again, winking and leering a smile. Geralt can feel warmth blooming across his face.

If anyone nearby says anything about it, he doesn’t hear them.

Jaskier’s voice lulls.

“ _You told that guy where he could take it.  
You couldn’t contain it  
...honestly!_

 _...and I’m too tired to try to be gracious.  
I’m probably blameless.  
Probably..._”

A few people crow out and whistle. Words wrap around him, almost suffocating, but Geralt sets his back against the worn leather of the seat and watches. His drink is long forgotten about.

“ _If I can’t be what you want,  
Then I guess I won’t be what you want.  
And I won’t say it again._

_If only I’d died before, I’d probably be famous.  
But I heard her sigh before, and it was contagious._

_You sit on the same right hand,  
And I guess it’ll stay like that.  
This isn’t the way I planned.  
Are you afraid? I am_.”

Jaskier spends almost an hour and a half singing. By the end of it, when he’s having his last chat with the audience, his voice is rasping and cracking over a few words. His face is flushed and gleaming with sweat. Jaskier gives everything to his performance, almost jumping down to dance along with people if he had his own way.

Geralt is distantly aware of eyes burning the side of his face. Lambert’s voice worms its way into his head – abruptly cut off by a groan of pain. Glancing over, Geralt tries not to smile at both Eskel and Coën with their elbows dug into Lambert’s side. “I’m only joking!” Lambert balks, wrapping his arms around himself.

When Jaskier disappears from view, slipping behind a thick curtain brought over to frame the stage, Geralt cranes his head. He wants to follow. Something pulls at him to get up and part through the crowd. His fingers fidget on his thigh.

“Go on.”

Glancing to the side, he’s met with Eskel’s face. The man lifts his chin, nodding to the stage. “I know you want to see him,” he says lowly. The words are far too low to be heard by anyone else. Coën and Lambert are talking among themselves, while Coën’s friends are sorting out new drink orders. Eskel’s eyes soften. “If he wants, he can come out and hang with us. Or you two could go. We’ll probably be going somewhere else after the next round.”

Geralt offers a small smile. “Thanks.”

Eskel shrugs. He’s drawn into a small argument beginning to brew between the other men. With his attention grabbed, Geralt slips away. Some of the crowd have already moved on, filing out of the bar to go somewhere else. Others have migrated towards the bar, chattering among themselves. The few that still stand in front of the stage are easy to drift through.

The _Scarlet Cardinal_ has a small team of security, with a guard standing at the door to backstage. The man regards Geralt for a while, arching an eyebrow when he explains to him who he is.

The man slips into the hallway, calling down to one of the few rooms down there. “Mr. Pankratz, your boyfriend is here.”

Geralt doesn’t hear a reply, but the guard grunts before swinging the door open. “The last room on the right,” he says gruffly, before turning his attention to the small crowd gathering behind Geralt. Some of them eye the door, but with a short growl from the guard, most of them clear off.

The backstage hallway is freezing in comparison to the bar. Gooseflesh lifts Geralt’s skin as he wanders down to Jaskier. His ears twitch at the man clearing his throat.

The room is small, with a couch pressed up against the wall and a brightly lit vanity on the other side. Jaskier stands in front of the vanity, flushed and red-faced from performing, and drinking the last of his water.

He catches Geralt’s gaze in the mirror. A broad smile spreads over his face. “Hey there,” Jaskier rasps. He turns just in time for Geralt to catch and kiss him. Jaskier is warm, almost scaldingly so as Geralt’s hands cup his jaw. The scent of sweat stings his nostrils, but underneath it all there’s the familiar scent of Jaskier that has him deepening the kiss.

Jaskier’s arms coil around his shoulders, pulling them flush together. The small of Jaskier’s back knocks the edge of the table. Geralt’s hands move, catching the back of Jaskier’s thighs, before hoisting the man up on to the table.

Jaskier breaks their kiss with a gasp. “Who are you here with?” he rasps. His fingers toy and curl the hair at the back of Geralt’s head.

“My brothers,” Geralt hums, “and Coën. He has some friends here too.” Standing this close to the man, chests pressed flush together, and Jaskier’s legs parted around his hips, he sees the thin sheen of sweat beading over the man’s face, and how tired his eyes look. Jaskier is a natural performing, giving everything to each song and gig. But he’s wrung out at the end of it all.

A small frown creases Jaskier’s brow. “Coën? I don’t think I’ve met him.”

“You haven’t,” Geralt replies, “he works with us at the garage.”

Jaskier nods.

Geralt dips down to press a chaste kiss on Jaskier’s lips. “Eskel said that you can join us for drinks if you like?” He scrutinises the faint absent-look in Jaskier’s eyes. “Or I can drop you home. If you want to rest.”

A slow, lazy smile curls along the singer’s lips. “I’m exhausted,” he laughs a bit breathlessly. He cups the side of Geralt’s face with his hand, his thumb brushing over the arch of a cheekbone. “I promise that we’ll tear up the town with your brothers one day.”

“I don’t think anyone says _tear up the town_ anymore,” Geralt chuckles.

“Yes they do.” Jaskier presses a pointed finger into Geralt’s chest. He lifts his chin, a proud smile forming. “I’m bringing it back.”

Geralt pats his hip, stepping away. “Come on,” he rolls his eyes. “You’re sweaty and tired.”

Jaskier huffs. He hops back on to the ground and runs his fingers through his hair in some attempt to fix it. His eyes glint. “But that’s your favourite Jaskier.”

Geralt grunts. “Not when I’m not the cause of it.”

A small flush breaks out over Jaskier’s cheeks, but he’ll surely blame it on the performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer will be rejoining our story in the next chapter; I just have so much fun writing these two idiot boys x
> 
> The songs that Jaskier sings in this chapter are all from an amazing (and CRIMINALLY UNDERRATED AND UNKNOWN band called Hailaker); "Coma / Smoke" // "Famous" // "By The Time". Please give them a listen on Spotify - if you like alternative/indie/chill music, you'll like these folks x


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There are references to harassment in this chapter. Valdo Marx is a dickhead and sends Jaskier some texts.

Sometimes it’s like Yennefer is speaking another language. His recent search history has been flooded with phrases and terminology that she shares with him. She calls at least twice a week, running over the plans she’s made with the midwife. It’s all in her hands – Geralt isn’t the one giving birth. Who is he to say what she should and shouldn’t do?

She’s been going to as many prenatal classes as she can. Work has been keeping her busy; just as one case is finished with a client, another pops up. Other people in her office have offered to take up the work on her behalf, but it’s Yenn – she hates the idea of being dependent on someone else.

As soon as he offers to come with her to a few classes, he instantly regrets it. Yennefer hates them; expectant parents gathered around a woman talking so softly and quietly it almost lulls them to sleep. But the midwife tells them things that they need to know, and what to expect when labour does come.

 _Better than looking it up online_ , Geralt thinks.

“—And if I’m going, you’re going too,” she almost growls into the phone one night, when the topic of going to the meetings isn’t up for discussion anymore.

None of it sits right with him. The air in the room is drowned in perfume and diffuser smells. It’s almost suffocating as he tries not to breathe in too much of the sharp citrus scent sitting above them. The other couples are fused together; mothers sitting in between their partners’ legs, sitting and moving around on large inflatable balls. They’re doing the same, with Geralt perched on a chair just behind Yenn. She doesn’t pay him much mind during most of the class; occasionally glancing back at him with an arched eyebrow or a rolled eye over something the midwife probably said.

It feels foreign. In the few meetings, how did she cope with being by herself? Did anyone look at her out of the corner of their eye? What must they think now, of him, just appearing after so long?

His tongue sits heavier in his mouth. His throat starts to clag. The midwife’s voice is drowned out by whirling thoughts in his head. Blood rushing through his ears is the only thing he can hear.

There’s a warm touch suddenly on his hand. “I haven’t heard you breathe in the last ten minutes,” Yenn leans back to whisper, barely disturbing the midwife as she explains something or other. Glancing down at the woman, Geralt blinks as he sees her hand on top of his, and violet eyes stare back up at him. Yennefer’s brow is pulled into a slight frown, worry flashing briefly over her face. She squeezes Geralt’s hand. “You need to breathe.”

Almost like an order, Geralt takes his first, proper lungful of air since sitting down in the circle. Yennefer’s hand still squeezes his, a touch that’s a firm link grounding him to the present. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. After a few minutes, Yennefer turns back around.

When the midwife claps her hands together, excusing them all for their lunch hour, Geralt’s feet can’t get him out of the room fast enough. The meeting is held in one of Aedirn’s recreational centres. Just outside the building, Geralt almost collapses into one of the wooden benches pushed up against the walls. With spring starting to settling it, the sun is starting to be a bit brighter and last a bit longer. It’s almost too much as Geralt squints, burying his face into his hands.

He’s distantly aware of Yennefer standing in front of him. Taking a few measured breaths, he rubs his face and looks up at her.

Yennefer regards him silently for a moment. “Is it too much?” she asks after a time, sitting down beside him.

“No, no, it’s not-it’s not any of that, I,” Geralt’s breath shakes. He squints, pressing his knuckles into his eye sockets, taking steady breaths. Everything Nenneke told him to do to chase off the noise burrowing into his brain.

A gentle hand rests on his back.

“I don’t know, I,” Geralt mutters. “It’s...She’s coming.”

Yennefer’s expression softens. She clicks her tongue. “I know,” she mumbles, rubbing Geralt’s back. She sits so stiffly next to him, a complete mirror to her voice and eyes, but he understands that she’s trying. “It’s scary. I’m freaking out too.”

Her voice is thin as she glances off into the distance. It’s a nice day, with most of the winter chill being chased away by the promise of a warm summer. The trees in the nearby park are already getting their leaves back, and flowerbeds dotted around the city are pluming with bright and colourful blossoms.

Time is slipping by: and their daughter’s due date is only on the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches Yenn’s bump. She makes no attempt to hide it anymore, even though it still has some time left to grow. In a light sweater and loose, flowing pants, she’s moved on from trying to fit into her usual workwear anymore.

“You’ve been so strong,” Yennefer says after a while. Her hand still skirts along his back, gentling out any last trace of panic still lingering in his blood. Yenn looks at him, her violet eyes scanning his face. “You’ve done so much for me, and the baby. You could have, I don’t know, you could have bailed when I told you. But you stepped up and took us both on. And after what we’d been through—what, what I put you through, I-”

One thing that he knows Yenn hates is the emotions of being pregnant. He’s never known her to cry – but now, Geralt swallows as he can see tears brimming her eyes. She turns her head away for a second, blinking them away. “And I hope that guy you’re seeing is making you happy.” She levels him with a firm look. “You deserve to be happy.”

Geralt’s throat clenches as he fights through a lump. “You deserve to be happy too,” he rasps.

Yenn’s eyes soften. “I’m alright,” she promises. Her free hand catches his, her thumb rubbing gently over the back of his hand. “Triss has been shadowing me for months now. It’s getting quite annoying actually.”

Geralt snorts. “I’m sure she’s doing a great job of watching over you.”

There’s a quiet moment between them. The sounds of Aedirn city flood back; birds flocking overhead and nestling into trees, cars passing in nearby roads, the distant chatter of people on their way back to work. Sounds that don’t have Geralt’s blood chill and freezing.

The hand on his back slowly slips away. “We don’t have long left,” Yennefer says gently, looking down at her bump. It peaks through the lapels of her jacket, stretching out the loose material of her sweater. “And once she’s here, the real trouble starts.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. He has imagined it; the first cries of his daughter, the first time he gets to hold her. He can see her waddling through her first steps, blabbering out her first word. She’ll be a fixture in his life until he’s gone. 

There’s always a twinge of fear when he thinks about it – but Vesemir had always smiled at him, assured him it was normal. That even now, as Vesemir’s hair has turned grey and his shoulders start to slouch, he finds himself worrying about his boys.

Down the street, he spots the other people within their class returning as one big group; obviously having gone out to lunch together. Geralt rubs his hands over his face, sighing out a harsh breath.

Yennefer makes a sound in the back of her throat. “You don’t have to,” she says quietly. She keeps her eyes on the group of people slowly making their way back to the centre, idly chatting among themselves.

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. He shakes his head. “No, I...I want to.” He settles his hands on to his knees, fingers curling around the joint. “I want to.”

Yennefer holds his gaze for a moment before sighing. “Alright. Come on.”

* * *

“She’s a cauliflower.”

Geralt glances over at Jaskier, currently offering no help in pulling dinner together for the rest of the house. Geralt frowns. “What?”

Jaskier lifts his phone. “Your baby,” he clarifies, “she’s the size of a cauliflower. Apparently.”

Shani and Priscilla mill around the dining table, laying out an extra place for Geralt. In reality, it stopped being referred to as an _extra place_ weeks ago when Geralt started coming over more regularly. When Geralt even offered to cook some of the dinners for the house, both of the women were more than happy to let him at it. _Just don’t let Jaskier do anything_ , Priscilla had told him one day, a serious look engrained into her face. _Just...don’t_.

Despite that, though, Jaskier insists on taking up a sliver of space in the already small kitchen. Perched on the counter, he scrolls through his phone as Geralt finishes up a tray of lasagne and garlic bread. Not once did Jaskier even offer to help peel or chop anything.

Essi steps back into the kitchen, glancing between the two of them. “What’s he talking about now?” she sighs, nodding over to Jaskier.

Geralt shakes his head. “Don’t know. Comparing my daughter’s size to vegetables.”

Essi’s face scrunches before she pads over to Geralt. Craning her head, she looks at the almost-finished pot. “Do you need any help?” Her eyes dart over to the other side of the room. “You know, like... _actual_ help?”

Jaskier balks. “I _am_ helping!”

Essi rolls her eyes. “You’re being a nuisance.”

“I, Geralt – tell her! I helped!” Jaskier lashes out with a leg, hoping to catch his toes into the other man’s thigh; but Geralt is too far away. With a small smile, he shrugs, leaving Jaskier’s mouth agape in shock.

Jaskier has been nothing but a distraction. Any time Geralt wandered a bit too close, just looking for a pot or chopping board, he was at risk of being ensnared by the singer’s arms or legs. Dinner would have been lost to quick pecks and soft touches, only to grow deeper and firmer. And with the other women just in the next room, with no wall to separate the space, Geralt _really_ didn’t want their attention.

Essi is much better at helping; finding a bottle of red wine somewhere and pouring out three glasses. Geralt takes measured sips – a silent agreement already settled that he’ll be staying over, and won’t need to drive anywhere. She brings the rest of the bottle out to the table, along with a plate of toasted garlic bread.

The house is full of sound. Gentle music plays in the background, from a band that Geralt has never heard of; much to the annoyance of Jaskier when plans to play his own music was shot down almost instantly by pretty much everyone.

Jaskier’s sharp intake of breath makes him pause. Geralt switches off the hobs. “What did you do now?” he glances over to the other man. His stomach twists as he sees Jaskier’s face; his eyes glued to his phone screen, brows knitted together and mouth slightly agape.

Geralt’s approach is quiet. He reaches out with one hand, skimming Jaskier’s knee. “What’s wrong?”

The other man is quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning his phone screen over and over again. Swallowing thickly, Jaskier hands his phone over to Geralt. “That,” he blows out, “that _fucking prick_.”

Geralt’s brows knit together. On the screen is a long stream of texts, from a blocked number, but Geralt can only hazard a guess from who they’re from. He runs his eyes over them, his blood starting to boil with every word that he reads. There’s a video attached to one of them – Jaskier’s performance at the _Scarlet Cardinals_.

_Think you’re so great because a few people bought your whole act? You’ve got some fucking nerve, Julian._

_And what’s this shit that you’re singing? Is this really what you’re making nowadays? Pathetic._

_I made you._

_You were nothing before you got with me._

Geralt stops. He lets the phone’s screen blink to black before setting it to the side. He goes to Jaskier, letting the man part his legs and draw him close into a hug. Geralt squeezes him firmly. “He’s a prick,” he says into Jaskier’s ear. “He’s jealous that you’re doing better than he is.”

The other man is shaking. Whether it’s rage or fear, Geralt doesn’t know. Leaning back to frame Jaskier’s face in his hands, he can’t see any trace of anger souring the man’s face. And he can’t smell fear coming off of him. Geralt’s thumbs brush over Jaskier’s cheeks. His skin feels warm, slowly reddening. “Don’t let him get to you,” Geralt says firmly “he’s looking to start a fight.”

Jaskier draws in a shaking breath. “I can’t do nothing,” he says quietly. Geralt’s ears prick at a sharp laugh outside from Essi. The girls are nearby – and with how Jaskier is looking at him, he obviously doesn’t want them to get involved.

“You won’t do nothing,” Geralt reasons, “but you’re going to be smart about it.” He clicks his tongue. Valdo Marx is a ghost in this house, always shadowing Jaskier wherever he goes. For the most part, the man is fine. But every so often, something sends him back.

Geralt presses a kiss to the centre of his forehead. “We’ll sort something out,” he mumbles against Jaskier’s skin, “if you’ll let me help.”

There’s a sharp huff of a laugh. “Of course I’ll let you help,” Jaskier says quietly, lacing his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. His fingers curl and tug at the hair at the back of Geralt’s head. Jaskier’s eyes are slowly turning red, but he forces a smile on to his lips. “Come on,” he says, “the girls will be waiting.”

* * *

**Geralt: Can we grab lunch? I want to ask you something.**

He fidgets with his phone, scanning the restaurant for Yennefer. It’s not their usual lunchtime, but he knows that the woman can ask for any hour off during the day. Most of Aedirn is still in their offices. The restaurant is actually quite quiet, with only a few tables taken up.

When Yennefer steps in, shaking the rain from her coat, Geralt’s breath almost catches in his throat. His fidgeting has only gotten worse since last night. He barely slept. Jaskier was the same; both of them curled around each other, listening to rain patter against the roof above them. When the sun struggled to get itself over the horizon, they both watched it, despite their eyes stinging from tiredness.

Yennefer walks over, a slight look of concern on her face as she takes in what Geralt must look like. She arches an eyebrow at him. “Is everything okay?” she asks slowly, setting down her bag and coat. A waitress wanders over once she’s sitting down. Both of them order their food – though Geralt only gets something small, not wanting his stomach to churn any more than it has.

His lips thin. “I wanted to ask you something,” he starts, suddenly frowning, wondering about what words to use. “Nothing personal, just, something about the law.”

Yennefer lifts her chin. “The law?” she asks, a slight surprise laced through her voice. Any time they had met for lunch, it was her to organise it. They would pour over plans for the baby, talk about what was in place for the labour, and the life they were going to schedule for the baby. This is the first time that Geralt has prompted a meeting. And looking at the woman now, he knows that she’s slightly wary of it.

He needs to clarify. “It’s about harassment.”

At that, Yennefer’s face changes. It hardens. “Oh,” she says, folding her arms on the table. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. “What are the grounds for it?” he asks, twirling his phone around in his hand.

Yennefer rolls the sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows. Even with the seasons changing and the rain not going anywhere, the air is thick and humid. She brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, by definition, it’s when someone behaves in a way that causes distress or alarm,” she says, the tone of her voice almost like reciting the words from a book. Her brows knit together. “But what kind of harassment is it? Physical, personal, discriminatory? Is it in the workplace or online?”

Geralt sets his phone down. He pushes it towards Yennefer. He’s quiet for a moment, as Yenn regards the phone and carefully takes it. It’s been a long time since he’s had a password on his phone, so the woman easily opens it up. Already loaded on to the screen are the screenshots Jaskier sent him of the texts from last night. Every single one of them.

He watches as Yennefer’s eyes scan over them. Her frown only tightens. “Who are these from?” she asks after a time, giving the phone back to Geralt.

“Jaskier’s ex,” he replies. “He sent those last night.”

Yennefer hums, scrolling through the texts. There was a lot. Ones that were sent throughout dinner, when Geralt pointedly left Jaskier’s phone in the kitchen. “Is this the only time something like this happened?” she asks.

“No,” Geralt rubs the back of his neck, “he, uh, he went to Jaskier’s house one morning. Tried to get through the door but Pris - Jaskier’s roommate – stopped him. Jaskier called me to go over because he was afraid of something happening.”

Yennefer nods. “Well, he totally has grounds to bring something up with this guy,” she explains. When their food comes and its set in front of them, neither pays much attention to it. “Firstly, he should keep a record of everything that this guy has done. These texts, the visit, even things he might have done when they were still together. Everything is useful to a potential prosecutor.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Could he press charges?”

Yennefer lifts a shoulder. “If there’s adequate reasoning, then I don’t see why he shouldn’t.” She starts picking at her lunch; a bright salad with grilled chicken and a glass of water. Thinking for a moment, she continues. “Once he’s gathered everything, get him to call me on my work number. I can put him through to someone who can help.”

He can breathe a bit easier. Even the smell of his own lunch, or the sharp citrusy scent of Yenn’s salad dressing, doesn’t wrinkle his nose or turn his stomach. She explains everything to him; what Jaskier will need to do, if he does decide that this is the route he wants to go down. Geralt can’t stop the worried frown creasing his brow. Jaskier is afraid. He’s never said that he is, but it’s painted all over his face and body. When Geralt comes over, he’s stuck to him, wanting to constantly either be sitting on him, or at least in the same room as him. As if Valdo Marx could kick down their door at any moment.

Every time his phone rings with a new message or call, he almost jumps out of his skin, or throws up into the nearest sink. Even if it’s just venues looking to book him for performances. And that’s when Geralt puts his foot down. He’s heard Jaskier debating about performances. And he won’t let the man stop doing what he loves just because he’s afraid of Valdo Marx being there and launching an attack.

Yennefer nods. “Then something definitely can be done,” she says firmly. Lawyer-Yennefer is a force to be reckoned with. He’s a bit disappointed that it won’t be her leading the case. If Valdo Marx knew what was good for him, he’d stay well clear of Jaskier. Not because of Geralt, but because of the woman sitting opposite him. He’s sure that she would drag him through the nine circles of hell for even breathing in Jaskier’s direction.

And she hasn’t even met him.

Geralt’s throat clenches. “Yenn,” he rasps. The woman glances up at him, fork stuck into a piece of chicken. When she tilts her head, he clears his throat. “Thank you.”

She offers him a small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V***o M**x has no rights in this house and will be dealt with swiftly and efficiently. He's only here for plot, I guess.


	14. Chapter 14

They could be throwing gasoline on a fire.

Jaskier fidgets with the comforter as Yennefer talks to him over the phone. Geralt lies nearby, turned on to his side to face the man, with an arm pillowed under his head. Jaskier sits back against the headboard, chewing at his nails as he explains everything that has happened since breaking up with Valdo. Geralt has heard most of it before – he was even there, at some points. But other things have him frowning. When Jaskier talks about being in a relationship with Valdo, what the other man was like in the months leading up to them breaking up, he has to stop himself from going to Cidaris and killing Marx himself.

Yennefer won’t be the prosecutor. She’s gathering evidence for a colleague of hers – Tissaia. Geralt knows her; he’s met her in passing before, when he forced into parties at Yennefer’s office. But Yennefer will be there. _I’m your lawyer now_ , she said one day. _If you want me to be there on the day, I will. I’ll drag that man to hell and back._

She has gathered everything she might need for a strong enough case. What will come out of it is up to Jaskier; anything from a verbal warning from the police to a restraining order.

When Jaskier’s voice starts to shake, Geralt reaches out and settles his hand on to Jaskier’s knee. Jaskier glances down, a ghost of a smile dusting his lips as he places a hand on top of Geralt’s.

“Right,” Yennefer eventually says. There are sounds of shuffling paper in the background, with the clattering of keys on a keyboard. “I’ll make sure Tissaia gets all of this. She’s busy today but she’ll call you tomorrow.”

Jaskier hums. “Alright.” His phone sits on the comforter between them. Looking down at the screen, Jaskier’s eyes soften. “Thanks, by the way. I...This must be strange.”

There’s a small moment of silence before Yennefer huffs. “This isn’t strange,” she says simply.

They hang up not long after, with Jaskier blowing out an exhausted sigh. Geralt scratches Jaskier’s knee. “How are you feeling?” he rumbles, looking up at the man.

Jaskier’s hair has gotten slightly longer, with his fringe starting to fall into his eyes. Running his free hand through his hair, pushing it back slightly, he lifts a shoulder. “Tired, I guess,” he says. He sets his phone on to the bedside table and lies down alongside Geralt. A content sort of sound leaves him as Geralt gathers him in his arms, hugging him close. Jaskier buries his head underneath Geralt’s chin.

Over the past few days, whatever hold Valdo Marx still had on Jaskier is slowly unfurling. Geralt has seen it in the way Jaskier’s smile has gone back to rounding his cheeks and squinting his eyes. Or how he isn’t afraid anymore to pick up the phone when someone calls. The _Scarlet Cardinals_ have asked him for more gigs, booking him completely until the start of summer.

And he isn’t’ afraid to go and stand on the stage, knowing that _if_ Valdo went, it would be him against everyone around him who loves Jaskier, and would protect him as fiercely as Geralt would.

But that’s not to say that there aren’t stumbles. He knows that vacant look sometimes ghosting Jaskier’s eyes. He’s seen it in himself for months on end anytime Yennefer’s name was even mentioned. He knows when Jaskier gets quiet, it’s because his mind is being too loud.

All he can do is help shake some of that away from him.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips when he feels Jaskier brush a kiss to Geralt’s neck. “You’re amazing, do you know that?” he mumbles against the skin. Peering up to look at Geralt, Jaskier offers him a small smile. “You’ve been so kind to me.”

And it hurts some deep part of him – to hear that Jaskier thinks he’s a saint just because he showed the man a shred of human decency to help him when things went wrong. He can only imagine what his life must have been like with Valdo in order for him to think that way. Geralt sets their foreheads together. “I want you to be happy,” he mumbles, rubbing their noses together. It earns a wider smile out of Jaskier. “I won’t rest until you are.”

A short burst of a laugh escapes the other man. “You might be in for a few sleepless nights, then,” he says. “I’m happy now, but, what if something happens? I think my brain is a bit broken.”

“So is mine,” Geralt replies. He reaches up, skimming the backs of his fingers across Jaskier’s cheek. “You weathered my bad days. It’s only fair that I help you too.”

Jaskier blinks. The corners of his eyes wet, but he sniffs. “I love you,” Jaskier suddenly rasps, leaning forward to kiss him.

Geralt hums into it. He breaks them, brushing their noses together. “I love you too.”

* * *

Tissaia is a force to be reckoned with. _Of course she is_ , Geralt thinks to himself as he follows her and Jaskier into her office. She _was Yennefer’s mentor when she was just starting out at the firm_.

Even though they work for the judge’s office, some of the prosecutors have their offices in firms dotted around the district. Tissaia’s office is one of the nicer spaces within the building, with two walls made of windows, looking out on to the sprawling borough

Tissaia gestures for them to sit. Her desk is sleek and modern, just like the rest of the floor outside. “So, Julian,” she begins, gathering a handful of files together.

Jaskier’s cheeks colour. “Uh, Jaskier,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I prefer Jaskier. If that’s okay.”

Tissaia regards him for a minute, but eventually nods. “That’s fine. So, _Jaskier_ , Yennefer forwarded me everything and I went through it this morning.” Most of it seems to be on her computer. Sitting on the other side of her desk, they watch as she pulls up document after document. On the other side of her desk sits a stack of papers and files. She hums as she skims her eyes over everything. “I suppose our meeting today is just to establish what you would like to do.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “I haven’t thought about it, to be honest.” His fingers twitch on his thigh. “I just...I just want him to leave me alone, I guess.”

Tissaia’s eyes soften slightly. Even with sharp features and pursed lips, he still sees the mothering figure behind it all; the woman who helped Yennefer climb her way to the position she has now. The woman who had looked out for her in the time where they were together – and in the months afterwards.

She hasn’t ordered for him to be killed, yet. Though she does keep Geralt out of the corner of her eye – even with Yennefer’s assurance that the both of them are good.

“If this was a first-time offence, I would recommend that Marx be given a verbal warning by police,” Tissaia explains. “But because of the volatile nature of your relationship, combined with the incident at your home a few weeks ago, I would push for a safety order.”

Yennefer had mentioned it in their call. Even knowing that it might be an option, Geralt still feels Jaskier stiffen beside him. He wrings his hands together in his lap.

Tissaia explains everything. Geralt doesn’t really listen to her, but Jaskier. The man’s breathing thins slightly, with his chest filling quickly. Geralt reaches out, brushing his fingers over his fidgeting hands. If Tissaia notices the movement, she doesn’t react.

“In your own best interest, I would recommend contacting the court today,” she says, reaching for a slip of paper and jotting down a number. “They can issue you with a protection order today, until the final order is drawn up and put in place.” Tissaia glances up at him. “It’ll be heard on an _ex parte_ basis. Marx won’t be there for that.”

Jaskier’s breathing settles, slightly. “But he will for the main court appearance?”

Tissaia nods. “He can bring his own legal representation, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.” She gestures to the computer screen. With everything that he’s sent to Jaskier’s phone, with Geralt, Pris, Essi, and Shani being there to witness him almost breaking into Jaskier’s home, Geralt has to agree with Tissaia.

Their meeting isn’t a long one. The choices are all up to Jaskier – what does he feel most comfortable doing. Tissaia’s voice holds a certain coolness to it, a voice that would be suited to a courtroom. But there’s a mothering softness to it as she explains everything, gentling Jaskier’s nerves when he has to tell her about the worst months of his relationship with Valdo.

Geralt hasn’t spoken a word. He’s only here for support; threading his fingers through Jaskier’s to ground him to the present, remind him that it’s _Geralt_ who’s with him, and no one else. Nothing will come to hurt him.

When their meeting is over, and they go to stand, Geralt blinks as Jaskier threads his arm through his. He ends up taking a fair bit of Jaskier’s weight. Looking at him, Jaskier looks as if he could collapse at any moment. He’s tired; and the meeting had brought up a lot of shit.

They left Tissaia with Dr. Nenneke’s number. “She’s his therapist,” Geralt says after a time. “She can vouch for everything.”

Tissaia nods.

When they get outside, Jaskier breathes in a lungful of air. Spring has settled in, with the air still crisp with cold, but the days have been steadily getting warmer. Jaskier squints against the bright afternoon sun. Aedirn’s high-rise buildings made mostly of glass make the city look silver, with how much light they reflect. “Will you come with me?” he suddenly asks. The hand he has around Geralt’s tightens. “To the court?”

Geralt nods. “Of course.”

And it’s nothing more than filling out some forms and attending a small hearing. The only people within the hall are them, the judge, and a bailiff. The judge – an older man with thinning, grey hair, and a hardened face – scans his eyes over a collection of pages. Tissaia must have sent over everything, then, Geralt thinks as he catches a glimpse of one of them; a screenshot of one of the texts Valdo sent. Jaskier tells his story again; his voice still shakes, and he occasionally stumbles over a word, but a softening look from the judge only prompts him on. Geralt sits nearby.

The judge nods, once Jaskier is finished. “Considering everything that Mister Marx has done,” he says, gesturing for the bailiff to come to the podium. “I’m granting you a protection order, effective today. This will stay in place until we meet again to discuss a full safety order. Is that understood?”

Jaskier swallows, but he nods. The bailiff brings Jaskier a document to sign. He quietly explains what everything means – the terms of the contract, how long it will be in effect for. What Jaskier will expect when he returns for the full safety order. It won’t be for a few weeks. They have time. Until then, Valdo isn’t allowed anywhere near Jaskier or his home. He isn’t allowed to contact him in any way. The judge lifts his chin. “We will contact Mister Marx in regards to the safety order. All you need to do is gather your own materials for our court date.”

Geralt presses a light kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “Home?” he mumbles against the warm skin.

The other man nods. “Home.”

* * *

He still watches his phone.

Geralt keeps him in the corner of his eye, but he knows that Jaskier still palms his phone in his hand, watching the blank screen as if something will pop up. He gets texts from Shani, still at work, wondering if dinner will be ready by the time she’s home. Priscilla calls him about what sort of wine to buy at the local store. Perched on the edge of a nearby worktop, Jaskier fidgets between setting his phone to the side, or keeping it in his hand.

Geralt works quietly. They have music playing softly – because Jaskier’s house is always full of sound, whether it’s talking or someone hooking their phone up to the dozens of speakers dotted around the house. The music was Jaskier’s pick; some band Geralt hasn’t heard of, but has a relaxing lull of sound lapping through the house. And if it makes Jaskier feel even the slightest bit calmer, then Geralt will let him play whatever he wants.

Dinner won’t be ready for another hour. A ragu simmers on the back burner, with a stack of lasagne sheets ready to go. Geralt grates the last of the cheese, pinching a small portion of it and handing it to Jaskier. The other man takes it with a small smile.

Geralt lets his hand skim the man’s knee, once he’s drawn close. “Bit of a redundant question,” he says quietly, “but are you alright?”

Jaskier lifts his head. “Huh? Oh, yeah,” he offers a small smile. “Just...thinking, is all.”

Geralt hums. “Do you want to talk about what’s got you thinking?”

“Not really,” Jaskier mumbles. “Not now, at least. Maybe later.”

Geralt nods. “Alright,” his lip twitches into a small smile. He pecks a kiss on to Jaskier’s forehead – something that always wrangles a bigger smile out of the man. And it works. He tries not to let himself feel too proud at the soft laugh that escapes Jaskier.

He looks at the spread of cheese and pasta sheets. “I can help, if you want?”

“Sure,” Geralt point to a glass dish on the other side of the kitchen. “Grab that and we can start layering.”

Every so often, it shocks him how easily they move together and around each other. When their shoulders brush, he has to stop a small shiver running up his spine at the warmth blooming through his skin. And he finds himself smiling, suddenly realising that Jaskier’s mood has improved. He tells him about his time at Oxenfurt – a genuinely happy time, according to Jaskier’s stories. Geralt never had a college experience. Vesemir couldn’t afford it; especially with three boys all in similar ages. But he taught them skills, how to get by in life. And he was happy with his job in the garage.

A bang rings through the house as the front door closes. Geralt’s ears prick at the sound of Essi and Priscilla in the hallway, toeing off their boots and shrugging the rain off their jackets. Jaskier scatters the last handful of cheese over the lasagne, before Geralt slides it into the oven. Just as he straightens up, arms wrap around him, tugging him back against Jaskier’s chest. Geralt goes with a huff. Glancing over his shoulder, he arches an eyebrow at Jaskier. “Okay?”

The other man smiles, resting his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder. “Okay.”

* * *

If Valdo Marx gets word of the order against him, they certainly don’t hear about it. Some small part of Geralt hopes that it’s just Marx adhering to the order. He isn’t allowed anywhere near Jaskier, or his home, and he isn’t allowed to contact him.

_Jaskier: Pris and I will be ready at 11. Text me when you’re outside and we’ll go x_

Geralt tosses his phone on to the bed, almost instantly lost among the sheets. Roach watches from the top of the bed, having made her next within the pillows and the top of the comforter. He wanders over to scratch the back of her ears, her tail lazily thumping against the bed. She watches him pull apart his wardrobe, looking for something to wear to the hearing. It won’t be a long session – and Yennefer explained most of it. _The judge will hear from Jaskier and Marx, and then he’ll deliberate over what needs to be done. It won’t take long, considering the kinds of evidence Jaskier gave up_. And he’s been to enough of Yennefer’s work parties to know that he does have somewhat nice clothes somewhere within this apartment.

Since getting home, Lambert has been following him like a shadow. “And you’re going for moral support?” he asks, gratefully stopping at the portal of Geralt’s room’s door. Roach growls from her spot on the bed, keeping a wary eye on the man, making sure he doesn’t step inside. Lambert narrows his eyes at her.

“He can bring people if he wants, apparently,” Geralt shrugs, diving deeper into his wardrobe, “so I’m going, and so are Priscilla and Essi.”

Lambert hums. “I just can’t imagine you _not_ vaulting over the stand to punch this guy,” he says casually, picking at one of his nails. “He sounds like an asshole.”

 _That’s putting it mildly_. A long-sleeved shirt and black slacks sit folded in the back of his closet. The only pair of shoes he has that aren’t scuffed and wearing away at the seams. When he looks back at the door, he finds Lambert gone. Probably wandered off to bother Eskel or Coën. He pulls on his clothes, fixing his hair back into a neater bun. A few stray strands fall out, dusting his face. Roach watches him, cocking her head slightly. “I need to get some stuff sorted out with Jask,” he tells her, gathering his wallet and phone. “Once everything is good again, you can come over. I’m sure the girls would love you.”

Roach’s tail thumps against the bed. He ruffles the mess of hair on top of her head.

* * *

The air is so thick, it’s almost smothering. Jaskier’s tense, standing ramrod straight beside Geralt, and holding on to his hand as his life depended on it. Priscilla and Essi frame them, with Pris reaching out to brush her knuckles against Jaskier’s free hand. _It’s okay. We’re here._

Valdo is already there, a small team of representatives with him. Tissaia waves them over to their side. “Yennefer and I have already spoken with Marx’s team,” she says lowly, flickering her eyes over to the other podium. “If they know what’s good for them, they’ll let the order pass.”

The judge calls on them to sit. Geralt presses a quick kiss to the arch of Jaskier’s cheekbone. “We’re here,” he says lowly, squeezing Jaskier’s hand. The other man offers him a thin, small smile, before going to Tissaia’s side. Yennefer stands beside the woman, dressed in her usual armour and a firm, serious look adorned on her face. Her eyes soften slightly when Jaskier slips into the seat beside them. She leans over, whispering something into his ear. They exchange a few curt nods.

Geralt’s eyes keep flickering from the back of Jaskier’s head to the other side of the room. Two of Valdo’s representatives quietly talk among themselves, pointing at things lain out on sheets of paper.

Valdo doesn’t even acknowledge their side of the room. His arms are firmly folded over his chest, his face set in a deep scowl as he stares straight ahead. His form only breaks to answers questions from the judge. When Jaskier’s turn to speak comes, a low growl claws up Geralt’s throat at Valdo rolling his eyes. His jaw bulges from how tightly he’s clenching his shut.

Priscilla is watching him too, a fiery look blazing in her eyes. She was there for Jaskier’s relationship with him. She knew what was going on – even before Jaskier came into her room one day to tell her. Essi sits beside her, threading their fingers together. It’s probably the only thing stopping her from rushing over there and punching him right in the face.

Jaskier is led to the witness’ box beside the judge. His skin is pale, not lit well by the fluorescent lights overhead. But Geralt knows that the man is shaking, twitching his fingers by his side to keep his nerves at bay. After swearing-in, Jaskier tells the judge everything. Tissaia hands over documents and evidence to the bailiff. The judge, a different man from the first hearing, runs his eyes over everything, noting them with a short nod and hum.

Looking over the rim of his glasses, the judge glances over to Valdo. “Mr Marx,” he addresses, “can you confirm that this is your phone number?”

One of Valdo’s representative's hands over their copy of the paper. He glances at it. Setting his jaw, he nods.

“Out loud, if you would, Mr Marx,” the judge grunts. “I’m not a mind reader.”

Valdo’s eyes harden. “Yes. That is my phone number.”

The judge hums. Looking over to Jaskier, he waves his hand. “Mr Pankratz, thank you. You can return to your podium.”

Jaskier shuffles back to his side of the court, keeping his eyes pointedly at the ground. Tissaia leans over, whispering something against the shell of his ear. A ghost of a smile dusts her lip, but she smoothes her expression when she’s called on to offer up more evidence to the bailiff. All of it was gathered by Yennefer. It scares him, how efficient she is at gathering data. She trudged up things about Jaskier and Valdo’s relationship that even Jaskier forgot about. Years’ old text messages and public social media posts; all volatile, all telling that something was wrong.

As his lawyer, Yennefer is eventually called on to speak. She stands and squares her shoulders. “In the past two years,” she begins, already flicking through files and organising them into a neat pile, “Mr Marx has repeatedly sent harassing messages to Mr Pankratz, varying in seriousness. After the ending of their relationship, these messages grew frequent in nature, and more volatile.” She hands a wad of documents to the bailiff. “Mr Pankratz has supplied me with screenshots of these messages. And Mr Pankratz brought to my attention that two weeks ago, Mr Marx approached his home and threatened both him and the other household members.”

The judge hums, thumbing through each document. Yennefer continues. “For the physical and mental safety of my client, I put forward the request for a safety order against Mr. Marx – on the grounds that he is not to have any contact with my client.”

The hearing takes almost an hour. Valdo says next to nothing, apart from answering questions. Geralt lifts his chin. One of his representatives has a white-knuckled grip on his elbow. Someone must have told him to shut his mouth, he thinks. For the most part, he sits slouched against his chair, pouting like a petulant child. Geralt sets his jaw. He’d like nothing more than to storm over and sort Valdo out himself. He’s sure that Priscilla and Essi would like to do the same. But the judge doesn’t take long to come to his decision.

“Because of the evidence and testimonies provided here today,” he says, clasping his hands in front of him, “I will grant Mr. Julian Alfred Pankratz a safety order against Mr Valdo Marx, effective today, and valid for five years. After such date, the order will be up for review.”

Jaskier almost sinks to the ground as soon as they’re dismissed. Priscilla is the first person to get to him, almost vaulting over the barrier to crush him into a firm hug. Geralt glances over to the other side of the room. Valdo is quietly herded out by his team, his hands rooted into his pockets and his head stiff and high. But Geralt can feel the scorching heat of rage coming off of him. Word of this will get out – and it’ll destroy him.

Geralt turns in time for Jaskier to fall against his chest, burying his face into his shirt and arms tight around him. Geralt hugs him back. “Well done,” he mumbles against the crown of Jaskier’s head. He rubs at his back, shoulders, and anything he can reach. Anything that can ease the last of the shaking tremors from his body. Tissaia clears up their desk, talking quietly with Yennefer. The woman has a hand set on her bump as she moves around the table, gathering her documents and stuffing them into her bag. A few wisps of hair have fallen out of her tie and dust her face. Geralt clears his throat, looking down at the man still clutching to him. “I’m just going to say thanks to Yennefer, okay?” he mumbles.

Jaskier nods against his chest. As soon as he lets go of Geralt, Essi swarms him, gathering him into her arms.

Geralt’s hands fidget as he slowly shuffles over to Yennefer. Tissaia is the one to spot him first, straightening herself and levelling him with a curt look. “Yes?” Even though he easily has a head and a half over the woman, her voice was always enough to floor him. All at once, his throat bobs and threatens to close as her stare pierces into him—

Yennefer clicks her tongue. “Gods alive, Tissaia, it’s alright,” she admonishes her mentor. “I told you – we’re good.” The two of them have a silent conversation, both staring at each other for a moment.

A short sigh leaves Tissaia. “Fine,” she says, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. Turning back to Geralt, she nods. “I hope that your friend has an easier time of it from now on.”

Once they’re left alone, with the bailiff curling around the courtroom preparing it for the next session, Geralt clears his throat. “I wanted to say thanks,” he says, “for helping Jaskier.”

A ghost of a smile shadows her painted lips. “It’s my job,” she says, putting away the last of her things. She has a cardboard box stuffed with files perched on the edge of the table. When she tries to lift it, Geralt holds up a hand, and carries it for her. Yennefer sighs.

“Just...” Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. “Thank you.”

The smile that curls along her lip is stronger. “As eloquent as always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the information about the protection/safety/restraining orders comes from where I live in the world; the process of going through it might be a bit different, idk?
> 
> But we'll have a settled Jaskier and a (hopefully) easier time of it!


	15. Chapter 15

“This should be weird. I mean, it isn’t weird. I’m really okay with it. But I can’t help but feel that this could be seen as weird.”

Geralt just about manages to stop his eyes from rolling. Taking a hand off the steering wheel, Geralt sets it on Jaskier’s leg to still Jaskier’s jittering. It isn’t a long drive from Redania to Aedirn. Most of the highways joining the boroughs are already packed with cars, travelling home from late-hour work shifts.

Yennefer’s apartment building is embedded in the downtown area of the borough. It’s just as tall and reaching as the others around it, with the top floors almost lost to a thick, heavy cloud drifting in. They park just outside of it, quickly gathering what they need and rushing into the building and out of the misting rain starting to envelop the city. The building’s reception is lined with marble tiles, reflecting light and making it seem a world away from the dreary early-spring day outside. Jaskier follows Geralt as they wander over to the reception desk.

A man with thick-rimmed glasses and salt and pepper hair glances up at them. “Ah, Geralt!” the man smiles. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

A small colour flushes Geralt’s cheeks. “I’m alright, thank you, Michael.” He gestures to the elevators. “We’re just visiting Yenn.”

The man – Michael – waves his hand. “I’ll call her to let you know you’re on the way up,” he says cheerfully.

The elevator opens and they step inside, Geralt catching a quick look at himself in the mirrors fastened to the wall. Sleep hasn’t been a friend of his, but without ghosts of past people looming over him, he has at least slept through a couple of nights. Even when he doesn’t have Jaskier wrapped around him, when he’s in his own apartment with Roach curled up against him, he stays asleep. Jaskier looks better too, the shadows that had gaunted his face now slipping away. His smiles linger that bit longer.

There’s a low, drawn-out whistle beside him. “You gave up _this_?” Jaskier whispers practically under his breath. A confused look wrinkles his face. “I’m sorry, but why?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “I told you – we didn’t work out.”

“You could have had _money_.” Jaskier lets out a short laugh. “I’m sure it would have fixed all your problems.”

He bites his tongue. Jaskier has money. He might not be speaking with his parents, but he still has an inheritance looming over his head – something to be lodged into the bank once his parents pass away. And he’s living in one of the nicest neighbourhoods in Redania.

Armed with two canvass bags, they step out on to Yenn’s floor. Her apartment is near the end of the hallway – Jaskier follows closely behind. Presents seemed warranted, after everything she had done for them in the last week. She didn’t have to. And she’ll say it’s her job to do what she did. But she didn’t have to with them. She could have passed it along to Tissaia and had nothing to do with it at all.

But when they were wandering through a store in Redania, trying to buy more clothes for Geralt to keep at Jaskier’s house, the other man dragged him over to a small display of alcohol. _For Yenn?_

**_No._ **

_Why not?_

**_She’s...she’s pregnant, Jask._ **

So they bought the wine for them – a bottle already cracked open by the women in Jaskier’s house – and instead went with a few bars of Yennefer’s favourite chocolate (the only thing that Geralt could remember her liking) and a bottle of a perfume that she always wears.

Jaskier’s fidgeting only gets worse when they come to stand outside Yenn’s door. Geralt knocks for them, then dusting his hand across the back of Jaskier’s. _Are you okay_?

The other man offers a small smile. He’s fine.

A lock clicks and the door is cracked open. Yennefer looks out at them, a small frown creasing her brow. “I thought Michael was joking when he said you were coming up,” she says, pushing the door open fully. She’s dressed in one of her worn sweaters, one that hangs over her bump. Her sweatpants pool around her ankles; already starting to swell.

Geralt offers a small smile. “We wanted to thank you,” he glances over to Jaskier. “For everything.”

Yennefer tilts her head, her eyes falling to the bag at Jaskier’s side. “You didn’t have to,” she says. She steps away from the door, gesturing for them to go in. The apartment is similar to his own; mostly openly planned, with only the bedroom and bathroom being hidden away. They shuffle into the living room, a TV show quietly playing in the background. Geralt sweeps his eyes over the room; cardboard boxes are pushed up against one of the walls, the skeletons of baby equipment half-built.

When Yenn comes to join them, Jaskier hands over the bag. “I didn’t know what you would like,” he offers quietly, a shy smile dusting his lips. “We haven’t officially met.”

To Geralt’s surprise, a light laugh lilts out of the woman. “Easily fixed,” she says, taking the bag with one hand and offering her other. “Hi. I’m Yennefer.”

Not at all trying to hide his own smile, Jaskier beams. “Jaskier,” he says, shaking Yenn’s hand. Geralt glances between the two of them, blinking. He isn’t sure what he’s waiting for. A whisper ghosts the shell of his ear. Two people in his life meeting like this, two people that had and have his heart stretched between them. He shakes the chill off.

A warming smell wafts over from the kitchen. Geralt glances over. Pots stew on the gas hobs, with a mountain of washing stacked near the sink. “If you’re having dinner, we can go,” Geralt says, “we just wanted to come over and say thanks.”

Yennefer looks between them. “What? No, come on. I always make way too much,” she waves a hand. “I’m sure there’s enough for two more.”

The smell of roasting sweet potatoes, grilled fish, and a stewing pot of dal warms his bones. There’s definitely enough to go around for the three of them, with a half-portion left over for tomorrow. Jaskier’s nerves eventually settle, and Geralt watches his profile as words flow out of him as easily as they normally go. Yennefer sets her chin on her hand, listening intently as Jaskier tells her about his gigs at the different bars dotted around the boroughs, how he’s planning on getting an agent – a proper agent – and releasing produced music. Yennefer tells him about law school – infinitely more boring than the type of trouble Jaskier was getting up to in Oxenfurt.

Geralt, for the most part, stays quiet. He sips water, watching contently as the two of them idly chat among themselves.

Jaskier sits back against his chair, his plate emptied and stomach full. His eyes drift down to Yenn’s bump, just as the woman stands from the table, bringing their dishes over to the sink. Geralt isn’t blind to it. He sees how Jaskier’s eyes linger, the corners of his mouth twitching with questions that he can’t find the courage to ask. Geralt’s arm settles along the back of his chair, his fingers brushing Jaskier’s spine. _I’m here_. _With you_.

“Have you thought about names yet?” Jaskier asks. When Yenn glances back at him, he nods to her bump. “For the baby.”

“Oh,” she blinks. “No, actually. We haven’t.”

Geralt hums. “We still have time to decide.”

A month and a half. That’s all the time they have left. Seasons have been drifting past him, with his mind focused on other things. But all the while, some fixed date in the future has been slowly stalking him; and now it’s on the horizon.

Yenn shuffles back to the table, half-falling into her chair with a slight huff. Her bump isn’t massive, but he can tell how bothered she is by it being cumbersome. She sets a hand on it. “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” she offers Geralt a small smile. It’s assuring – whether it’s for her or him, or both of them, he doesn’t know.

Jaskier glances back at the hoard of boxes gathered against the living room wall. “Do you need a hand building anything?”

Yennefer blinks. “Oh, yeah,” she waves a hand. “It’s fine, I’ll figure it out.”

“I can help,” Jaskier offers.

At that, Geralt makes a face. “Can you?”

“ _Yes. I can, Geralt_ ,” Jaskier snips, looking back to Yennefer. “And I have a house of able-bodied women who would be glad to lend a hand. If you needed any, that is.”

And he’s half-expecting her to shoot him down. Yennefer Vengerberg has never needed help in her life. Everything she’s ever done it’s been by herself.

But Geralt almost chokes on his water when her eyes soften, and she nods. “That sounds great. Thank you.”

* * *

The combined nine circles of hell are less chaotic than Yennefer’s living room. Shredded cardboard boxes stack up against the wall, spilling out into the hallway and in the way of the front door. Most of the living room floor space is now taken up by sheets of instructions and parts of cribs and changing tables. Yennefer perches on the edge of the couch, overseeing everything with a handful of chocolates in her hand. “You’re all doing great,” she offers, trying not to crack a leering smile at the three glares thrown her way.

Priscilla and Shani offered to come over, armed with whatever tools and equipment they would have needed.

Yenn lifts her hands. “I’m eight months pregnant,” she says simply, “I can’t lift anything heavier than a bag of sugar.” She sits back against the couch, content to nestle into her comforters and throw pillows scattered around, and watch on as another argument breaks out between the others about what piece goes where. Geralt watches from the kitchen, his attempt at drowning out the noise long forgotten about. He looks up just in time for Shani to shove Jaskier out of the way of reading the instructions because _for a lyricist, you can’t even fucking read_.

A smile pulls on the corners of his lips. It’s chaotic, and it reminds him of his own home. When Vesemir handed the keys to the apartment to Geralt and made them all swear that they weren’t to kill each other. A promise that was almost broken within the first weeks when they had to build a new dining table. Shani and Priscilla and Jaskier might be different from his brothers as day is to night, but the chaos, he recognises and adores.

He has a few snacks lain out on the kitchen island, ready for anyone to pick at when they want a break. Geralt gathers a small plate of them, nothing more than roasted peanuts and slabs of chocolate. He pads over into the living room, trying not to laugh at the chaos engulfing most of the floor space. Yennefer sprawls herself out on the couch, resting her feet on a nearby ottoman.

She’ll be on leave from work soon. But Geralt has already spotted her desk laden with her computer and stacks of files neatly sitting beside her keyboard. Yennefer will keep working until the day the baby comes – and might even try and solve a few legal disputes while labouring.

When she spots him coming, she holds out a hand. Handing over the whole plate, Geralt perches on the edge of the couch. He should help. He offered to. But a very outspoken Shani and Jaskier said that they could do things by themselves. Jaskier watches him out of the corner of his eye, throwing over occasional smiles – ones that disappear entirely when drawn back to what he’s doing. Which, Geralt tilts his head, he isn’t really sure of himself.

Yennefer nudges him with her foot. “We have one last prenatal class to go to,” she says quietly, too quietly for the others to hear. She gnaws at a few peanuts, thumbing the husk through her fingers. Her bump is more pronounced now, with their daughter almost ready to come out and greet them. And Geralt’s stomach seizes at the thought of it. Everything is already ready – most of the furniture, though not for long if Jaskier and his housemates are left to build the rest of it; arrangements for where the girl will spend her time, with who and where. And with all of these decisions being made and sealed into place, all it reminds Geralt is that he’s barrelling towards a huge life change. And it twists his stomach.

Yenn’s eyes soften. “It’ll be fine,” she assures him, and maybe perhaps herself. He sits back on the couch with her, keeping an ample amount of space between them for her nest of blankets and a small mountain of snacks. She picks at most of them, offering ones that she doesn’t really like over to Geralt.

Jaskier watches him out of the corner of his eye, smiling softly when Geralt catches his gaze.

When they leave Yennefer’s apartment, they leave behind a finally built crib and changing station. Geralt lifted them both into Yenn’s bedroom before leaving, being reassured that _yes_ she’s fine, and _no_ , he didn’t need to do anything else.

Shani and Pris talk amongst themselves in the back of the car, both hunched over Shani’s phone and looking at videos of some online creator they both follow. Jaskier sets his head against the window of his side of the car, blearily looking out at the passing Aedirn streets. It’s a world away from their stretch of road; brightly coloured and lit buildings still shining light down on to the street, making people question if the sun had even set at all.

They make one stop for takeout, and continue on home. As Geralt turns on to the house’s street, warmth blooms on his thigh. Peering down, he sees Jaskier’s hand settling there, his fingers curled into the fabric of his jeans. A grounding touch, one that they share a lot. Glancing quickly over to the man, he blinks at the sight of a small smile curling the edge of his lip.

* * *

And the takeout is sprawled over their dining table. Shani and Pris devour most of it, even almost-fighting for the last dumpling sitting on the plate. Jaskier falls into Geralt’s side, his hand skimming the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s tired; subtle shadows have started to settle beneath his eyes, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his cheeks.

Geralt nudges him. _Bed?_ He inclines his head towards the hallway.

Jaskier nods. It’s a short climb to Jaskier’s room; Geralt knows the way so well now that he could do it blind. Jaskier walks in front of him, with his hand reaching behind to search for Geralt’s.

Jaskier’s room seems to be in a constant state of mess. Most of his clothes live on the back of his desk chair or strung about on the floor. The comforter of his bed, although mostly pulled over to make it look like some effort was put into making the bed this morning, just hides more tees and socks underneath. Geralt perches the foot of the bed, toeing off his boots and nudging them to the side.

Jaskier stretches out, the bottom of his tee lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. Geralt hums, reaching out and skimming his fingers along the top of Jaskier’s jeans. The other man catches his wrists. A slow smile curls along Jaskier’s lips, his eyes hooding slightly as he leans down to catch Geralt’s lips in his. The kiss is chaste, to begin with. Nothing more than the press of lips – a gentle assurance of touch.

Geralt tilts his head, framing Jaskier’s face in his hands as he deepens the kiss. A groan soon crawls out of his throat as Jaskier’s arms curl around his neck and shoulders. The man clambers on to his lap, pulling their chests flush and their hips close. Geralt moves them back, crawling until he feels the first of Jaskier’s absurd amount of pillows he always stacks up against the headboard.

He brings them both down, grunting at the sure solid feeling of Jaskier on top of him. Nimble fingers get the buttons of his shirt, managing the push the lapels of it away to bare Geralt’s chest. He groans as Jaskier sets his lips over every stretch of skin he can find. Murmured praises slip out between kisses. Jaskier’s fingers are a force unto themselves, quickly untying and pulling at clothes until they all get flung into various corners of the room.

Geralt reaches off to the side, rummaging through the bedside cabinet. When his fingers graze the half-emptied bottle of lube inside, he grabs it and pushes it to Jaskier’s chest. The other man quirks an eyebrow. Geralt’s legs part around him, his ankle lifting to set itself against the small of his back. “I need you,” he sighs, coiling his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders. His fingers skim bare skin – gooseflesh already rising to meet his touch.

Jaskier stares at him blankly for a moment. Words are trying to string together behind his eyes. “Have you taken anything before?”

Geralt gives a slight nod.

Jaskier’s eyebrow quirks again. “...Like...what?”

Even with a faint blush warming his cheeks, mainly from how intently Jaskier watches his face, his words come easy. “Fingers,” Geralt lets a smile tug at the corner of his lip when Jaskier’s eyes widen.

The man’s question is slow to slip out. “Your own?”

Geralt thins his lips, musing. “Sometimes.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes, nothing but a choked-off attempt at a word stumbling out between his lips. A smile curls along Geralt’s lip. “A few toys, too.”

“ _Gods alive_.” A sharp click rings out in the room and suddenly two lube-wet fingers skim along Geralt’s hole. Shivers ring up his spine. It’s been a while. Sex with Jaskier is good; it’s always good. But it’s been a while since anyone has touched him like that. He’s been in Jaskier’s bed for months, always on the giving end. Before that, he spent months on his own. His body will have forgotten how to loosen. But he’s trustful of Jaskier’s touch. The man’s hands do sinful things to him at the best of times. He’s sure that the nimble, sure fingers will be able to coax him apart.

When the first nudges, Geralt’s caught. He wants to languish back against the pillows, look up at Jaskier above him, with hooded eyes and an askew lip. But he wants to lean forward, set their foreheads together and watch Jaskier’s eyes. They’re such an astonishing ocean of blues and silvers. Every time he looks into them, he spots something new.

As one of Jaskier’s fingers slip into him, he lounges back against the pillows, a wave of warmth washing through him. It’s been a while, and even then, he parts for the other man. Jaskier drops his head down, his lips dusting Geralt’s quivering abdomen. “You feel good,” he breathes, words melting into Geralt’s skin. “So hot and tight already. Can’t wait to get you around me.” It’s only a knuckle, but familiarity rings through him. His body knows what to do, and it knows Jaskier. His cock leaks against his stomach, already red and weeping as he struggles not to take himself in hand. It’ll be over before it’s begun. And he doesn’t doubt for a second that it won’t matter to Jaskier at all – he’ll wring orgasms out of him until the sun comes back up in the morning, and Geralt might just die from it.

Jaskier’s first finger slips deeper into him, coaxing him apart. At the first brush of that spot inside of him, Geralt’s legs draw up, but splay out to the side. He needs Jaskier deeper. He needs more fingers, just _more_ —

A short laugh brushes along his stomach. Lips that are just inches away from his cock, but nowhere near it all the same. Geralt glowers down at the other man, something only deepening at the look of sheer joy stretched across his face. “You’re so sensitive,” Jaskier breathes, “who knew.” Jaskier knows. He knows by the number of times he deliberately clenches around Geralt when he’s inside him, or how his fingers and lips and mouth could be considered instruments of torture. But this is different. His body thrums with a pleasure he hasn’t felt in almost a year. Geralt sets his head back against the pillows, lounging and letting shivers and trembles run through him.

One finger becomes two, and a soft moan escapes his lips as Jaskier comes up to meet him. Their lips catch and they kiss, letting tongues meet and coil until they break apart gasping for air. Geralt sets their foreheads together. A shared breath sits between them. He quirks an eyebrow. “Another?” he breathes. The way his voice is beginning to rasp has Geralt’s stomach clenching.

Geralt nods. “Slowly,” he replies.

And Jaskier is always so gentle. Even when teeth bite and nails scrape, when they’re pretty sure they’re both making enough noise that the others can definitely hear downstairs, Jaskier is always so gentle. And this isn’t an exception. More lube, gentle kisses flicked along Geralt’s stomach and the tops of his thighs. A hum buried against the meat of his leg as Jaskier’s fingers slide in. “There you go,” he breathes, a small smile ghosting at the groan spilling out from Geralt’s lips. “You feel so good, my love. I can’t wait to get inside you; feel that tight, wet heat around me-”

“-Get a fucking move on, then,” Geralt snarls. An arm flings over face, burying more noise into the crook of it as Jaskier quickens and drags his fingers and out, coaxing Geralt open.

Jaskier’s laugh is light. “Oh no, I want to see how long I can keep you like this,” he smirks. “I just found out that my boyfriend used to bottom for someone – a fact kept away from me, mind you – so I have some backlogged research to see to.”

Geralt’s arm moves. Two golden eyes glare down at the other man. “Do you want me to tell you – _Gods, Jaskier_ ,” he snarls. “Do you want to know the details?”

“Would you believe me if I said that I kinda do?”

The fingers don’t stop. Coaxing and delving deeper, until every second brush of Jaskier’s fingers dusts against Geralt’s prostate, and he’s so close to falling over the edge; he can just reach for it—

“I’m going to kill you if you don’t do _something_ ,” Geralt’s lip lifts in a snarl.

Jaskier quirks an eyebrow. “I _am_ doing something.” His fingers delve deeper, beginning an assault on Geralt’s prostate. His grin turns feral as the man below him trembles.

Jaskier can be gentle – but Jaskier can be _evil_.

He doesn’t know how long Jaskier keeps lulling him to the edge, only to push him back from it. Each time, each rock forward and yank back, Geralt’s face only tightens. It’s terrible and beautiful at once; a feeling he’s gone without for a long time, finally returning to hum through his bones and muscles.

Jaskier dusts a kiss along the plains of Geralt’s abdomen. He hums. “Alright, alright,” he mumbles. When his fingers slip out of Geralt, the other man swallows a whine. It barely manages to slip out from between his lips. Jaskier smiles. “It’s okay, I’m here,” he purrs, reaching out for the bottle of lube to smear some on to his palm.

Geralt’s breath sticks in his throat as he watches Jaskier palm himself, slicking his cock while his light coloured eyes scan over the body underneath him. It’s too much, being scrutinised. But no part of him wants to coil in on himself and away from Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier lifts his chin. A steady breath sighs out of his nose. “Okay?”

Geralt nods. “Yeah.” His voice is nothing more than a rasping crackle.

Jaskier isn’t as lithe as people think him to be. Catching the back of Geralt’s thighs and moving his legs around his hips seems to be an easy enough movement for him. Not that Geralt _wouldn’t_ want to be manhandled by him. He’d happily be flung around the room, pushing on to every surface they could find. Muscle clings to Jaskier just as well as it does to him.

A quiver rattles through him as soon as Jaskier slips inside. There’s a faint hum of pain, from faded familiarity, but Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth as he watches Jaskier’s hips come flush against his own. Jaskier’s breath shakes out of him. Gentle hands palm at the meat of Geralt’s thighs, easing and soothing. “Geralt,” he breathes. His own voice rattles. Bleary blue eyes blink down at him.

Gentle fingers card through his hair, pushing it back from his face. Geralt’s eyes are almost scrutinising as they jump between Jaskier’s. His mouth hangs open, a small puff of air leaving him as Geralt’s legs coil around his hips, his ankles fitting snugly into the small of his back. A gentle encouragement. _It’s alright_. _Move_.

The first thrust is nothing more than a rock of their hips. They grind, and Jaskier barely moves within him at all, but it’s enough to have noise spilling out of both of them. Moans and half-aborted attempts at each other’s names. And then Jaskier’s hips move again, and again, until the first slap of skin rings out within the room. It barely manages to fight over gasps and grunts. There’s a creak coming from below them. The bed that has seen every night that Geralt has stayed over; when he has pinned Jaskier underneath him, or guides him on top of him, and ruined bedsprings and almost sent the headboard chipping into the wall. It’s a small wonder how none of the women has said anything to them yet.

Geralt’s head falls back amongst the pillows, his eyes blearily focusing on the mottled plastered ceiling. Jaskier’s thrusts are slow but deep, hitting everything within him. It’s too much and not enough. His legs tighten around Jaskier’s hips, his ankles nudging the small of his back.

“I can see why someone appreciated this arse,” Jaskier breathes, catching the back of Geralt’s legs and quickening his thrusts. They’re sharp and short, just brushing ever so slightly against Geralt’s prostate. And it’s not enough, at all. Geralt’s whine is a pitiful noise in the back of his throat. Jaskier grunts at the next roll of his hips. “You’re taking me so well, darling. You feel amazing.” Jaskier’s face screws up slightly. Geralt tightens around him.

Aborted attempts at each other’s names spill out between their lips. A tight grown wrangles its way out of Jaskier’s throat as he bends over, setting one arm on to the bed beside Geralt’s head. White hair clings to him, stuck with sweat beading on his skin. He can only imagine how he looks; fucked out, chasing a release that Jaskier seems to be racing him to. His mouth hangs open, broken off little sounds escaping him.

Jaskier leans down, catching his lips in a deep kiss. “Please tell me that you’re close,” he breathes against Geralt’s lips. Just behind those blue eyes, there’s a struggle. Geralt can see it in the way Jaskier’s lips thin as he struggles to hold back noise. His hips stutter between stopping and drawing out long thrusts, trying to get the most out of Geralt’s body. Jaskier’s breath catches. “Because I’m not gonna last,” he grunts, his hand on Geralt’s thigh gripping.

And Geralt has been lapping against release, _just there_ , but not quite enough. He palms at Jaskier’s chest, winding his arms around the man’s shoulders to bring him closer. The movement gets him deeper inside Geralt. He grunts. “Fuck me,” Geralt bites against the shell of Jaskier’s ear.

Legs splayed out to the side, hips lifting to meet every one of Jaskier’s grinding thrusts, hanging on to the man as if his life depended on it; he’s close. And he’s barreling towards it. Jaskier’s hips stutter as wet noise buries against Geralt’s neck. Geralt lets his lips settle against Jaskier’s ear. “Come in me,” he whispers, his voice lightening. He can imagine what Jaskier’s feeling; hot walls tightening and fluttering around him. The chase of the release, when it’s just a finger’s brush away. And Geralt knows what to say to fling Jaskier over the edge. “I need you, Jask. Come in me, bury it deep.”

A choked-off noise escapes Jaskier’s lips. Sweat beads along his brow. His movements are erratic now, trying to get them both tumbling over the edge at the same time. Geralt’s cock, forgotten about, leaks over his abdomen, reddened and ruddy. His hand drifts down, fingers skirting along the shaft. A thrum of pleasure wrings through him. “Jaskier,” he breathes, curling his fingers around his cock and stroking it in time with Jaskier’s thrusts. He bears down on the man, letting their hips snap against each other. Jaskier’s eyelids slip shut. His face screws up slightly. He’s close. And Geralt is too – the coil in his core is tightening, ready to let him fall over the edge—

“Come for me, Jaskier.” He tightens his legs around Jaskier’s hips. “Please, _gods_ , I need it.”

When they fall, they coil around each other. Jaskier buries his face into the hollow of Geralt’s neck, his groaned out drawl of Geralt’s name muffled against skin. Geralt’s eyes roll back in his head, pleasure lapping over him as he tightens and slackens. Warmth spreads through him. Glancing down, Geralt’s breath catches at the sight of white wet streaks scattered up along his abdomen and chest.

Jaskier slips out of him, tiredly falling to Geralt’s side. It’s not long until arms encase him, tugging him close and moulding around him. Jaskier huffs a tired laugh, but lets himself be jostled around before Geralt settles them both; the singer’s chest pressed against the length of his back. Jaskier’s arms coil around him, welcoming sleep as it slowly laps over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer pegged Geralt. 
> 
> No further discussions.


	16. Chapter 16

A storm is coming. Geralt’s fingers twitch on his thighs as thoughts lap over him like waves. Some steady part of him knows that everything is fine; plans have been stewed over and set for weeks and months, finally solidified in place. Yennefer has her birth plan ready to go. Hospital bags sit next to the front door of her apartment, ready to be snagged once they have to go to the ward. Even when she’s here, they know who she’ll be staying with and when. Yennefer will have primary care of her, and while Geralt will be a constant in the girl’s life, he’ll have to wait until she’s old enough to start spending time with him, in his apartment.

And something about that strikes fear into him – their daughter being his sole responsibility. Making sure that she goes through life as untroubled as he can make it for her. His heart clenches at the thought of her having to experience anything he went through – abandonment, foster care, and years plagued by mental health issues. Geralt frowns. She’ll never go through any of that. Even if he has to stay awake every night, guarding her against monsters, then he’ll gladly do it.

A hand settles over his, stopping his fidgeting. Glancing over, he blinks at Yennefer watching him intently. “Are you alright?” she asks quietly. The midwife leading their last prenatal class is talking to another mother, explaining something or other about labour.

Geralt nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah,” he rasps. “I’m fine.”

Yennefer doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she squeezes his hands and turns her attention back to the midwife. It’s their last class before their due date. And it’s so close, Geralt could reach out and touch it with the tips of his fingers. And every time he reminds himself of it, his stomach drops. She’s almost here. The tiny baby that he’s watched grow inside of Yennefer will be with them both soon enough. And she’ll cry and laugh and he won’t be able to sleep for the first few weeks because he’ll worry about just about everything.

The midwife stays for questions, already gathering a small crowd of expectant mothers and their partners. Geralt glances to Yenn. “Do you want to stay?”

Yennefer shakes her head. “I’m tired,” she huffs, setting a hand on her bump before standing. Geralt would offer a hand, but he’s already had it smacked away before – Yennefer is stubborn and wants to do everything by herself. Something that pregnancy hasn’t dimmed.

So he grabs her bag and jacket and slings them over his arm. “Let’s go, then,” he says. It’s not the longest walk to his car, parked out front, but once they step out into the warm summer air, Yennefer catches the sleeve of his shirt. The air sits heavily around them, with the pavement being scalded by the midday sun. Geralt offers an arm. “Come on,” he gentles. “Take your time.”

And she hates it; being vulnerable, having people dote on her. She’s as stubborn and independent as they come. But over the past couple of weeks, ever since she stopped being able to see her toes, truthfully, she’s been letting him in slowly. Even if it’s just holding on to him as they shuffle to his car: Geralt counts it as a win.

He gets Yennefer and her stuff into his car before rounding to his own side. Once the engine starts up, with the AC, he pulls out into the Aedirn streets. Sunlight bounces off of the windows of each skyscraper and high-rise building the pass. Even though summer is only starting to roll in, the sun perches high most days, scorching everything beneath it. Sleeping has been rough, having to leave most of the windows of the flat open so that he doesn’t die of heat exhaustion in his sleep. And with a very clingy musician insisting on moulding himself to Geralt’s back or side every night, nights haven’t been entirely peaceful.

Yennefer rests her head against the window, humming as a ray of sun warms her face. The drive back to her apartment is quiet. It always is. But there’s no need to fill the silence with mindless chatter. Yenn’s eyelids even flutter closed just as they get caught up in traffic. She hasn’t been at work in weeks; something that is starting to take a toll on her. He remembers when she first got the job. He never saw much of her during the day; to climb to where she needed to be, she needed to do everything for everyone. She worked and worked until their relationship broke into pieces. And during the nights, he got used to her being hunched over a laptop at her desk, preferring to take on new assignments and attach herself to cases in order to scale the ranks.

And he supposes that’s why she is where she is now. She’s the youngest lawyers in the firm – and the firm is one of the best in the boroughs. And while it took him months to come to terms with the fact that, sometimes, he’ll have to make decisions of his own for the betterment of his own life, wounds started to scab over and heal. They’re okay now. He can be in her presence without his blood prickling in his veins and churning his stomach. He can enjoy the way she tries to joke around with him again, or mutters under her breath when she’s at home, laptop perched on her lap as she runs her eyes over reports emailed on to her from her colleagues. “Idiots, the lot of them,” she grumbles, then spending an hour or so bathed in white computer light, trying to fix mistakes.

When they pull up outside her apartment building, her hand stills on the car door. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but,” she thins her lips, “but if you want...I know Jaskier is important to you, but if you want him to be a part of her life too, then, that’s okay with me.”

Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. For a moment, his throat threatens to close as he tries not to let any noise come out. Yennefer turns to him, violet eyes searching his. “She’ll have the weirdest family make-up ever, but it’ll be a family.”

And it doesn’t work. A noise leaves him that isn’t quite a hum or a sob, but something in between. He nods, not trusting his voice just yet to carry him through any words. _And I want the same for you_ , he wants to say to her.

Yenn’s eyes soften. She reaches out, her palm lightly settling against his cheek. A few days worth of a beard scratches along her thumb. “Thank you,” she gentles, “for everything.”

* * *

“Do you even live here anymore?”

Geralt glances at Lambert taking up most of the doorway, leaning against it with his arms folded over his chest. He’s just come from the garage, smelling mostly of shower gel that masking the lingering scent of oil and grease. Geralt packs some tees into his bag. “Sure I do, my name is on the lease.”

Lambert rolls his eyes. “It’s just that we never see you anymore,” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “We were thinking of renting out your room, since you never seem to use it.”

It’s a joke. He knows it is. Lambert has never been serious about anything in his life; and it gives him far too much pleasure to rile up his brothers with jabs. So Geralt turns to him again. “I’m in a relationship,” he says steadily, “and my ex-girlfriend is about to give birth to our daughter any week now. Sorry if my attention is elsewhere.”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes Lambert. “Yeah, you’re life is pretty fucking hectic, alright.” He lifts his chin. “But you seem to be handling it pretty well.”

“Because you don’t see what’s in my head,” Geralt hums, zipping up his bag. He has lots of them dotted around just about everywhere these days. A bag is kept at Jaskier’s, with the man’s wardrobe now a quarter full with Geralt’s clothes – mostly plain shirts and zip-up hoodies, some jeans, and boots. There’s a bag waiting for him at Yennefer, but that is for the hospital; stuffed with just about everything they could think of needing. Clothes for themselves, clothes for their daughter, a hat and gloves even though its _summer,_ blankets, diapers, unscented wipes. A newly bought car seat sits by Geralt’s front door. Yenn doesn’t drive, being only a tram’s journey away from the firm.

Geralt slings the bag over his shoulder. Fishing the phone out of his pocket, he opens the newest text from Jaskier.

_Jaskier: What do you think?_

Attached is a picture of him and Triss, the two of them standing in the middle of a store with arms full of baby clothes. Jaskier is holding up a small pastel yellow dress.

Geralt snorts.

**Geralt: You do know it’ll be a while before she can wear anything like that? She’ll be a potato for a few weeks.**

The other man’s reply is instant.

_Jaskier: And she’ll be the prettiest potato in the boroughs <3 _

Lambert rolls his eyes. “You being in love is disgusting,” he almost gags. “Where’s Depressed Geralt? I miss him.”

He’s long gone. Geralt huffs a short sigh as he brushes past Lambert, bag slung over his shoulder. It’s not that he’s completely better. He stumbles every once in a while. But so does Jaskier. The other man still holds some haunted look in his eye every time something that reminds him of Valdo Marx drifts into his eye line. But as soon as darkness comes, it’s shooed away again. Both of them are holding each other up, at this stage, and Geralt can’t seem to find a fault with it.

Eskel is finishing the last of his lunch when Geralt steps out into the living room. The coffee table is piled with work they’ve taken home over the past couple of weeks. A hot summer means air conditioners to be replaced and almost-melted engines to swap out for newer ones. Geralt grunts. “I’m staying at Jaskier’s tonight,” he says – because, yeah, he does spend a lot of nights at Jaskier’s house, but he always tells his brothers where he’s going, just in case they need him for anything.

Eskel hums, stuffing the last of his sandwich into his mouth. “Enjoy,” he muffles around the bread.

A plan is in place. A few nights spent at Jaskier’s house, with his phone’s volume at full blast. He offered to stay in Yennefer’s apartment – keeping himself either in her spare room or on her couch. She doesn’t drive, and the maternity hospital in Aedirn isn’t close to her apartment building. It would be better for them if he was only a shout away. But Yenn refused. _Spend time with your boyfriend, or your brothers. Anyone who isn’t me_ , she urged as she practically shoved him out of her apartment. _Please. I’ve taken up too much of your time already_.

And if he were willing to fight it out with her, he would have called bullshit. Geralt has all the time in the world for her, and their daughter. And Jaskier would understand if he turned down a few nights in his bed for Yenn’s couch. If anything, the other man was just as confused as to why Geralt was even staying over in the first place. **Your ex is about to pop out a whole baby and you’re here?** He tilted his head.

So he tightens the hold on his bag and heads down to his car. A few more nights spent curled around Jaskier won’t do him any harm. He keeps the anxieties at bay, even in the dead of night when shadows and whispers still threaten to creep in.

He tosses his bag into the back of his car and fishes out his keys.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

A call. He frowns. It’s been a long time since anyone has called him about anything; texts usually do. Glancing down at his screen, he tries not to let his heart jump out of his throat at the sight of Yennefer’s name pop up.

He quickly answers. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she breathes. The TV hums in the background. “Sorry for calling you but, gods, I didn’t want to freak you out over a text.”

Her voice sounds firm, but there’s a slight tremor hanging on the end of her words. Even between sentences, she’s breathing steadily in and out, and Geralt’s heart hammers in his chest. _No_ , he thinks. _It’s too early. She’s hardly_ —

“Can you come over here?” Yenn’s voice breaks into a small whine, something he’s never heard from her before. “I’m getting bad cramps and I don’t know what to do.”

Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his throat. “Yeah, yeah sure.”

Aedirn might not be the furthest borough away, but he makes the journey in what seems to be half the time. Cars blur by as he speeds down the motorway, his fingers curling and tightening around the steering wheel. His knuckles turn white. _She’s hardly in labour now_. His mind reels. _It’s too early. It’s not supposed to be now. We’re not ready yet—_

Pulling up outside of Yenn’s apartment building and rushing to the elevator blur. His heart hammers in his chest as he stares at the slow climbing numbers pass in the corner, counting each floor that he reaches and passes. _Fuck sake, come on_ , his fingers drill against the handrail. When the elevator doors open just enough for him to slip out, he’s barrelling down the length of the hall to Yenn’s apartment.

The door opens just as he knocks. Yennefer looks...fine. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, with a loose shirt hanging off of one shoulder, and sweatpants pooling around her ankles. Her face is pulled tightly into a grimace. Geralt swallows, reaching out to gentle her back inside. “What’s happening? Are you alright?”

She has a hand set on her bump, her other around the small of her back. “I’m alright,” she bites, shuffling back into the apartment. Geralt shadows her, but keeps enough of a sliver of space between them so that she doesn’t freak at him hovering. But just as they’re about to step into the living room, she stops. A hand juts out and settles on the wall, grounding her as she almost doubles over in pain.

Geralt reaches out, smoothening a hand over the small of her back and holding on to her other arm with his. “It’s okay,” he gentles, not-quite wincing as a wave of pain washes through her. She tries not to cry. She’s not the type of person to cry. When she’s annoyed, or angry, or frustrated, she lashes out and snaps and yells, but she never cries. But something akin to a sob wrenches out of her throat, unable to be stopped by her clenched jaw. Geralt clicks his tongue. “Alright, alright,” he hushes, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He quickly taps out their midwife’s number. He tries not to linger on how his hand trembles as he lifts the phone to his ear. With his other arm snaking around Yenn’s waist, he leads her to her couch. A nest of blankets and cushions are already there, creased slightly.

She sits down with a small huff.

The midwife picks up on the second ring. “Geralt!” her bright voice rings through his ear. “What can I do for you?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Yennefer is in a lot of pain,” he says, proud of how his voice doesn’t tremble in the slightest. Yenn’s face tightens again as another wave of pain rushes over her. He clicks his tongue, pulling the phone away to put it on loudspeaker.

There are sounds in the background. The hospital, he supposes. Muted chatter and keyboards clicking. “And when did the pain start?” her voice lulls so easily, a question she must have asked hundreds of women hundreds of times.

Yenn breathes steadily for a moment. “An hour ago,” she rasps. Geralt’s throat bobs at the sight of tears brimming in her eyes. “It was like period cramps before, but now it’s really bad.”

“And is it pain or pressure, Yennefer?”

“A bit of both,” she gets out through gritted teeth.

The midwife hums. “I’m looking at your chart, and you still have a week to go before you’re due,” she says thoughtfully, “but first babies are known to do what they like.”

Their midwife must put the phone to her shoulder; there’s a muffled conversation between her and someone else. “It’s probably a bad bout of Braxton Hicks,” she comes back with. A noise escapes the back of Yenn’s throat. “It’s not pleasant, but it’ll go away in a bit. But if the pain changes, or if it doesn’t go away, call me again and we’ll see about getting you in here.”

Yennefer swallows. “Okay,” she breathes, reclining back into her nest of pillows and blankets.

Geralt takes the phone off of loudspeaker and presses it to his ear. “Can she take anything for the pain?”

The midwife hums. “Yes, she can have some over-the-counter painkillers. And make sure she drinks plenty of water.”

When Geralt hangs up, slipping the phone back into his pocket, he has to take a moment to breathe and steady himself. Adrenaline is starting to wane, leaving him trembling and fighting to catch his breath. The thought of Yenn slipping into labour, earlier than they had planned, it frightened him. They weren’t ready. Even with the plans in place and everything gotten, he was thrown off of everything. He’s _not ready_.

He fishes his phone back out, tapping out a quick message with numb thumbs.

**Geralt: I’m at Yenn’s. She’s having bad cramps. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come over.**

The other man’s reply is quick.

_Jaskier: Shit, is she okay? That’s completely fine. Do what you need to do_

**Geralt: She’s fine now. Took some painkillers. Will have to stay and keep an eye on her.**

_Jaskier: Until she eventually gets annoyed with you hovering and kicks you out <3_

And...yeah, he can’t argue with that. She’s already keeping him in the corner of her eye, watching him pace around her kitchen to grab as many snacking foods as possible. A pitcher of water is already set on the coffee table, with her nursing a glass of it while keeping half of her attention on the TV. It’s some mindless game show on, nothing that she would watch if she were in the right frame of mind. But it’s something to keep her thoughts off of the pain, just until the medication works.

And he won’t leave until he knows she’s okay. And even then, he’ll worry. On his drive to Jaskier’s, as he’s trying to sleep, staring at the rafters of Jaskier’s room. He’ll worry that something is wrong, that he should have taken her to the hospital, that if something did go wrong, it would be his fault—

“Don’t listen to them.”

He blinks. Looking up from the tray he’s laden with snacks, he looks over to Yennefer sprawled out on the couch. She’s looking straight back at him, TV completely forgotten about. She levels him with a stern look. “Those thoughts going around in your head,” she lifts her chin. “Don’t listen to them.”

She had been so good with him when his brain started to crack. It started fragmenting long before they broke up. Something deep inside his mind was not quite right; but he couldn’t even settle on what it could have been. Being abandoned at the age of four. Getting dropped off at an adoption agency’s that same year. Going months between foster homes. Even when he reached Vesemir, his nights were spent crying and nightmare riddled. He was a diagnosed mute until he hit eight years old, when his first rasping words managed to wriggle free of his closed throat. And even then, he was always known as Vesemir’s shyest pup. The one who didn’t like to talk.

And when anything reared its head – nightmares, bad thoughts coming in and out of his mind like lapping waves – Yennefer helped. She sat with him on dark nights, smoothening hands over his back and shoulders, her touch wringing out every static-like anxiety feeling in him. And when he truly broke, when they decided that they were done with each other for the betterment of their own lives, she still tried to reach out. But it wasn’t her fault that any time her name popped up on his phone, he would fling it to the other side of the room and curl in on himself.

Geralt swallows. “I know,” he rasps, fingers fidgeting with the handles of the tray. _But it’s hard_ , he wants to say. _It’s hard to ignore them when I’m facing something so completely foreign to me. Because that’s where they like to live and play._

He brings the tray over to her, setting it down on the coffee table and perching on the edge of the couch. Yennefer sighs, muting the TV. “Do you want to go to Jaskier’s?” she asks, regarding him closely. When his mouth opens to answer, a small frown creasing his brow, she holds up a hand. “I’m alright, Geralt. I’m better now. If anything changes, I’ll call you. I promise.”

He’ll sleep with Jaskier beside and around him. And Aedirn and Redania aren’t the furthest boroughs from each other. Geralt thins his lips, but nods. “Alright,” he breathes. He takes one last look at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I’m _fine_.” She shoves lightly at his shoulder. “Go. I promise I’ll call you if something happens.”

* * *

Jaskier’s room is a chaotic mess, but it’s strangely comforting. Sure every item of clothing he owns is strewn about on the floor and over the back of his desk chair, instead of being neatly folded into his wardrobe. Or the fact that books and bottles of aftershave and moisturisers sit stacked on the desk itself. Geralt can’t remember if Jaskier’s bed has ever been made – unless he’s the one pulling the sheets back in place in the mornings after spending the night.

He’s reclined against the other man, his back nestled comfortably against Jaskier’s chest. A slow, rhythmic heartbeat thumps through him as ease slowly laps over them both. Jaskier’s playing with his hair. Why he has such a fascination with it, Geralt will never know. But he’s not complaining. The singer has long, deft fingers that can card through and massage his scalp. Even when he frowns, feeling Jaskier tug and weave strands together into braids, he allows it.

Jaskier’s laptop sits in front of them. A movie has been on for the past hour and a half, and Geralt’s attention is beginning to wane. His eyes are sore as he tries to blink himself awake, but with the comforting warmth of the room and the familiar fingers carding through his hair,

So much energy goes into panicking that when he’s finally lured down from it, it leaves his muscles and bones exhausted. Jaskier rests his chin on the crown of Geralt’s head. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he hums, sounding just as tired as the other man.

Geralt tilts his head back. It displaces Jaskier, but the other peers down at him with a small bleary smile. “Nothing,” he mumbles, lifting his chin. Jaskier’s smile only grows. He dips down and presses a light kiss to Geralt’s lips. The angle makes it awkward, but Geralt sighs, eventually turning around to face the other man. He leans in for another kiss, a deeper one and one that steals his breath. Jaskier’s hands gentle the sides of his face and tug him closer.

Just about holding himself over Jaskier, Geralt sighs against his lips. He breaks them apart, setting their foreheads together. “I love you,” he breathes, nudging the ends of their noses.

A light laugh bursts out of Jaskier. “I love you too,” he smiles, tilting his head slightly. Their lips graze, just meeting but nothing more than that. Heat blooms in his core. “What’s brought this on?”

The movie is long forgotten about. Geralt sighs, stealing a chaste kiss again. “Just...” Words sit on the tip of his tongue, but they don’t budge. Familiar blue eyes gaze back up at him. They jump between his own, scrutinising, seeing straight through him into his very soul. Jaskier’s expression softens. Clicking his tongue, his thumbs swipe over the ridges of Geralt’s cheekbones. Every graze of skin against skin blooms heat.

He understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close, folks...


	17. Chapter 17

For all his brothers rib on Yennefer, they don’t mention anything about the false labour. They can jibe him, and poke and prod, but they know where the line is. Even Lambert, the worst of them all, knows how shaken Geralt was when his firmly etched out plans threatened to be thrown out the window just because his daughter decided to be awkward and come early.

Yennefer doesn’t have any more episodes. At least not for the following few days. There are twinges of aches, nothing too severe. But every time she has one, she notes it down and waits for the next. When it doesn’t come, she settles Geralt’s nerves. _It’s not labour_ , she says over the phone.

He spends most of his day the garage, staring down the barrel of an almost full inbox. Invoices for car parts and tools, requests for new suppliers, new and old customers sending on reviews and inquiries for new work to be done. Work keeps him occupied. Roach sits next to him on most days, her bed having been dragged over to underneath his desk. He tries not to laugh too much at the sight of her settling her head over his foot, sick of it tapping incessantly on the ground.

Jaskier’s voice is in his head these days. _You have everything planned,_ he gentled Geralt one night. They had crashed at Geralt’s apartment, stuffed after a dinner made by Eskel and post some action movie Lambert wanted to watch. Curled around him in their bed, Jaskier’s lips rested against the shell of his ear. _You and Yennefer are the soundest people I’ve ever met. You both got your shit together. Even if this baby comes early, so what? It’s just a small thing that you can deal with_.

It’s surprising him how the grounded, more logical side of his brain is starting to sound more and more like Jaskier these days. The part of his mind that intercepts anxious ideas, nipping them in the bud and tossing them out before they can prickle Geralt’s skin.

There’s a light knock on the office door. A knock he knows well. “Yeah?” he grunts, not taking his eyes off of the computer. He’s answered most of the customers’ emails. Most of the invoices have been lodged too. But his eyes are starting to strain and water.

“Your boyfriend texted me,” Eskel says a bit too cheerfully, striding into the office and letting the door click shut behind him. He sets two plastic bento boxes on to Geralt’s table. “He said that if I didn’t make sure you ate something today he would, and I quote, _bash my head in with his guitar_.”

Geralt snorts, rubbing at his eyes to make them adjust to the office lighting. “Sounds like him,” he says, sitting back in his chair with a huff. His back and shoulders protest, and he cranes his neck in a circle to loosen it up. But the smell of rice and grilled fish has his stomach rumbling. “Though,” he says, uncapping the box. “He values his guitar way too much to break it on your thick skull.”

Eskel winks. “I’m counting on it.”

They used to do this all of the time, eating lunch together. Lambert would be in here too. Maybe Coën, if Eskel had made enough. But Lambert has been on-and-off with a girl for the past few weeks and decided – with some _subtle_ help from Coën – to go to lunch with her. And Coën, gods only know where he is. Probably spying on the date he helped make happen.

One thing he’ll always come home for is Eskel’s cooking. Most of his childhood was spent attached to Vesemir like a shadow. What he saw so interesting in a kitchen, Geralt will never know. But Vesemir got him a plastic step one day, just so he’d be able to peer into each pot and pan he used on the burners. And he eventually got his own chopping board and cutlery, and his own chef’s knife when Vesemir was sure he wouldn’t just stab Lambert with it. Even now, with all of them in their thirties, Geralt is still waiting for the day Lambert gets that knife in the face.

Steamed rice, an eggroll, grilled salmon with a soy sauce glaze. Geralt can’t get it down quick enough. Eskel tries not to laugh, but he rolls his eyes. “Your ex will kill me if you choke,” he says around a mouthful of egg.

It’s not that he hasn’t eaten in a while. It’s just that what he has eaten hasn’t been...great. Jaskier has kept him fed with pasta and bread and lulled with wine. And his roommates can churn out chicken and beef dishes like no one’s business. But Eskel’s cooking is different. It’s like home. 

So he slows, though not by much. He has his bento emptied long before Eskel. Roach looks at him, big brown eyes begging for something. When he holds up his empty hands, she glowers at him, and goes back to sleep.

“So how’s Yennefer?” Eskel asks, picking at a piece of salmon.

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. “Fine,” he says, nodding to his phone sitting beside the computer monitor. “She’s been having twinges, but nothing severe.”

Eskel hums. He’s quiet for a moment. “You know,” he says, paying more attention to his rice and fish than looking Geralt in the eye. His face wrinkles, testing the words swirling around in his mouth. “You know that if you guys need help, Lambert and I are here, yeah? We...” Eskel sighs. “She really fucked you up, yeah, but if you say you’re cool, then we’re cool with it too.”

Geralt’s eyes blink up from his lunch. He knows that. He knows that what Eskel and Lambert feel for Yennefer is just a gut-reaction to what happened, and the unholy fallout of it. They’ve always been incredibly protective of each other. That will happen when three kids from different shitty backgrounds are stuffed into the same house, and called a family. If anything were to happen to either of them, Geralt might just go on a rampage.

So he nods. “I know.” His words rasp coming out, so he clears his throat and goes back to eating.

Keeping his eyes locked on to his lunch, he doesn’t see Eskel nodding a reply, and quietly going back to his own food.

* * *

_Jaskier: We need a night out._

**Geralt: Do we?**

_Jaskier: Correction – **you** need a night out._

He really doesn’t. But Jaskier looks at him in a certain way whenever he tries to lure the man out anywhere, or to do anything.

So he grabbed a simple tee, bomber jacket, a worn pair of jeans, and some boots. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel of his car, he hums an odd tune to himself. It takes almost a moment too long to realise that it’s one of Jaskier’s newer songs; a melody muttered and lulled around his house, when he thinks no one is listening.

Jaskier and his roommates bustle out of their house. Geralt tries to hide his smile at Jaskier being the first one to dive into the car, taking his usual spot up front with Geralt. And it’s just to rest his hand on his thigh when he’s driving, or peck a kiss to the arch of his cheekbone before any of the women can faux-gag at them.

So while Shani and Pris and Essi are all trying to figure out who’s sitting in what order, Jaskier leans over and catches Geralt’s lips in his. It’s a quick kiss. But Geralt can’t stop a noise slipping out of his throat when Jaskier pulls away with a lazy smile. “All good?” Jaskier rasps.

Geralt nods. “All good.”

* * *

Jaskier watches him. The other man has been keeping him in the corner of his eye for weeks. As Yenn’s due date creeps closer, now only days away, Geralt can’t settle. He thought he was bad before. He only slept for a few hours at a time, waking up during the night to untangle himself from Jaskier and check his phone. Yennefer’s voice still echoes in his mind. _If something happens, I’ll call you. Please don’t worry._ But now it’s worse. He can’t sleep at all. Jaskier knows. Surely he does. He falls asleep before Geralt at night and wakes up to him shuffling around in the kitchen downstairs, under the guise of putting together breakfast.

Some part of him is fine. It knows that he’s fine. They have a plan that they’ve combed through ever since Yennefer met him in that park all those months ago and told him about the baby. Both of them know what to do. Hospital bags sit at Yenn’s apartment door, ready to be grabbed as soon as the first pains start. He knows the quickest route to the hospital, just in case.

But his fingers fidget on his thigh, drumming an unrecognisable rhythm as he takes another measured sip of his beer. Things have tried to whisper to him at night. Worries about what could happen. He could lose the baby. He could lose Yenn. He could lose both of them.

And then what?

His hand stills against his thigh. Glancing down, his lip twitches at the sight of Jaskier’s hand covering his. He curls their fingers together, gently squeezing. Squashed into a booth in the _Cardinals_ with his housemates and Geralt’s brothers, their shoulders and sides are pressed firmly together. Jaskier turns his head, setting his lips against the shell of his ear. “You haven’t breathed properly in the last five minutes,” his voice murmurs, “you need to calm down.”

And his skin is on fire. It sizzles with every brush of Eskel’s shoulder on the other side of him. The music lulling through the air, and the hum of conversation from other patrons dotted around the bar, it’s almost too much. Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand. He’s here, and acting as an anchor.

With everything he can, he takes a steady, long breath in. Jaskier taps out the seconds.

The coil loosens. His lungs can push his ribcage and fill, and his breath doesn’t catch in his throat any more. But he feels sick. His stomach churns.

Tonight is a distraction. One that’s desperately needed. Jaskier has been playing in the bar for almost a month. It earned him free drinks from the bar staff – something both his housemates and Geralt’s brothers took full advantage of when they found out. And they haven’t been on a night out in weeks.

Their groups get along well. Almost disarmingly well. Geralt glances over at the opposite side of the booth – Essi burying a cackling laugh into her hand at something Lambert must have said. Eskel and Shani and Pris chatter idly about something or other. The words are lost to the hum of noise around them.

Warmth blooms along his side as Jaskier leans into him. “Okay?”

Geralt hums. _Okay._

* * *

Something crackles in the air. Even as he clambers awake, he can already tell something is different. Something’s off.

Exhaustion buries into his bones. Even with something nipping at his skin, he can’t find himself caring _. It can be a problem for later._

Geralt buries a long, heavy sigh into his pillow. Curled around Jaskier, he tugs the man’s body back against him. Summer days have been getting warmer, but the mornings can still be frost-laden and chilled. Jaskier lets out a small grunt at being moved, but shuffles back against Geralt’s chest at the idea of the man’s arms coiling further around him.

His tongue slumps as the faint taste of beer coats the roof of his mouth. Nights out with his brothers can ruin him. And he spends enough time in Jaskier’s house to know that the man’s housemates can hold their own when it comes to drinking. The two groups of them together, and Geralt’s body didn’t stand a chance.

Jaskier blearily paws for a blanket that slipped off of them during the night. He grabs a fistful of it before flinging it up and over them. Not that Geralt needs it. He’s warm enough to be lulled back to sleep. And he’s almost there when his phone rattles against the bedside table.

A sharp, whining noise escapes the body in front of him. Jaskier even makes a show of flinging an arm over his head. As if the phone’s buzzing will just go away by itself.

Still sleep-laden, Geralt pushes himself up and over Jaskier, reaching out for his phone. A frown etches into his forehead at the sight of Yennefer’s name popping up on the screen. It’s a call.

A terrible feeling drops in his stomach. His mind floods.

She would text him. That’s what they both agreed on. A simple text and he would break every speed law known in the boroughs just to get over to her house.

Geralt rubs at his eyes, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hi?”

There’s a small huff of breath. “Hey,” Yenn snips quickly. “They’ve started.”

All at once, sleep slips from him. Cold washes over him as he scrambles to sit up against the headboard. “When?” he manages to get out past a heavy tongue. Nothing can quite settle yet. He’s sober. And gods above, he wishes that he weren’t. But he quickly checks the time on Jaskier’s bedside clock. It’s not even eight in the morning yet.

_Of course their baby would be fucking difficult—_

“An hour ago,” Yenn replies. There’s shuffling in the background. She’s walking. Pacing, more likely. A sound escapes Geralt’s throat. “They’re still pretty far apart, but I thought I would call you just in case...”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he rubs at his face again, shaking the last of sleep out of him. He blearily looks around the room. His clothes lay scattered in every corner, with a bag for himself permanently taking up space beside Jaskier’s door. The body beside him shuffles. Jaskier flounders on to his back. Sleep heavy eyes glance up at him.

A quiet sound slips out of Yenn. It’s almost muffled over the phone, but it only drives Geralt to swing his legs out of bed. “I’ll be over in ten minutes,” he says, stumbling over to his bag to grab some fresh clothes. Bedsheets rustle behind him.

Yennefer sighs. “Don’t break any speed laws, please,” she says tightly. “I won’t be able to bail you out.”

She’s the one to hang up. But the promise is there; _he’s on his way, he’ll be there in a few minutes_. He grabs a plain tee and his jeans.

Jaskier’s voice is nothing more than a rasp. “What’s up?”

Geralt glances over his shoulder. Jaskier holds himself up with one arm, but he only has one eye cracked open. His hair is fluffed and sticks out in all directions. Warmth blooms through him at the sight and for a brief moment, he forgets about the churning in his stomach. He wrenches his jeans and shirt on. “Yeah,” he says, slightly proud of how well his voice holds up. “Yenn is having contractions.”

That seems to shake some sleep out of the other man. Jaskier sits up a little bit, setting his back against the headboard. “Do you need anything?” he asks, looking around the room for something. Anything.

Geralt’s boots still sit where he toed them off last night, parked just beside the door. A zip-up hoodie lies slumped over the back of a desk chair.

 _Phone. Keys. The bags are at Yenn’s place_ —

He runs his fingers through his hair, wrangling it back into some presentable bun. His hands shake, but it’s nothing new. He’s used to the tremors. They’ve plagued him for months, coming and going as they please. He’s so focused on steadying his hands, he almost jolts at the sight of Jaskier standing in front of him, bare-chested and clad only in sweatpants. “Everything will be okay,” he assures Geralt. Blue, sure eyes stare right into his. Jaskier clasps their hands together. “If you need anything, call me. Essi and Shani can drive.”

A steady breath blows out of Geralt. “Thank you,” he rasps, leaning down to set his forehead against Jaskier’s. The other man smiles; one that takes up his entire face, rounding his cheeks and crinkling his eyes.

* * *

The first time they go into the ward, they’re sent home. The midwife’s face couldn’t look more apologetic if she tried. “It’s better to wait at home for the time being,” she says softly. Her voice matches the pastel colours of the ward and the faintest of smells of lavender through the air. Everything is eerily gentle. She pointedly speaks to Yenn – who is anything _but_ calm. “It could be a while yet before anything substantial happens. Until then, it’s best if you were relaxing at home. If your contractions get closer together or get stronger, come back in. But this is your first labour; I’m afraid you’ll be waiting a while.”

“My first and last,” Yenn growls once they both get back into the car. She sets a hand on her bump, while her other kneads her side. “I’m never doing this shit again.”

Geralt tries not to laugh. He swallows most of it, but a huff of breath leaves his nose. “You’re doing fine.”

“Fuck off, Geralt,” Yenn grumbles, setting her head back against the headrest, breathing steadily through what he can only guess is a new contraction. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He wants to help. He really does. Watching pain wrack through the woman’s body, watching her face screw up and her breath hitch as she struggles to breathe through it doesn’t sit well with him at all. But all he can do is be there.

The midwife’s number is on speed dial. _Call me if anything changes_ , she told him as they walked out of the ward. _If her pains get worse, or they’re closer together, or if the baby’s movements change._ They park outside Yenn’s apartment building. It’s closer to the hospital than his own place, and she pointedly states that she doesn’t even want to be in the same neighbourhood as Lambert while she’s in labour. Taking the elevator up, he tries not to crowd her as she sets her hands on the rails, breathing steadily and focusing on the toes of her shoes as another wave of pain laps over her.

Walking inside her apartment is surreal. The last time he was in her apartment was weeks ago. But as soon as he steps inside, he recognises the crisp white walls and the tall lancet windows looking out on to the afternoon cityscape of Aedirn. Some of her furniture has moved around. The spaces have filled out more. She started renting the apartment during the last year of them being together. Most nights were spent on a mattress on the floor, eating takeout from cardboard plates and plastic forks. But now the smell of lilac and gooseberries curl around him. He remembers when she bought her furniture – she always asked him to bring it up to the apartment and build it for her, with Jaskier and his roommates at hand to help. Not that any of them minded.

Being back is strange. Geralt regards everything he passes with a wary eye; the exposed brick of the wall, the framed prints hanging up, the bookcases full of fiction books and leather-bound tomes of law books she needs for work. It’s all so familiar.

They leave her hospital bags in the entrance hall. If they need to make a quick journey back to the hospital, at least they won’t have to worry about getting their shit together.

Yennefer spends almost an hour and a half trying to sit down for more than five minutes, having to stand up and stalk around her entire apartment because she can’t settle. They annex her living room for the time being. A large grey L-shaped couch is smothered in blankets and throws and pillows. Yenn carves out a nest for herself in the corner of the couch. The TV is a soft drone in the background, with neither of them paying any particular attention to it. With the lights dimmed and a soft hum of noise surrounding the room, it’s as calm and peaceful as he can get it.

When she stands up, it’s just to shuffle around the room or walk down the long hallways that stretch out towards her bedroom. She keeps her hands poised at her back, wandering around muttering softly under her breath. Geralt twitches. He wants to follow. But there’s some conversation going between her and their daughter that he’d rather not intrude on.

She steps back into the living room and Geralt hands her a glass of water. “Here,” he mumbles. “The midwife said that you have to keep hydrated.” Yenn eyes it before sighing, taking it with a quiet _thanks_ , and sipping at it. All he knows about this stage of labour is that she’s to be kept comfortable. Being sent home didn’t shock him at all. There’s no point in going into hospital too early. If given the chance to chill out at home, who wouldn’t take it? But there’s a thrum of anxiety still prickling his veins. What if something happens to the baby? Or to Yenn? What does he do? Who does he call?

She hates it. He can tell. She hates being vulnerable and reliant on someone else. She’s too independent for her own good – something that he loved about her, but ultimately was their downfall. She curls back up on the couch, dragging a soft fleece blanket over her and tries to watch whatever show is playing on the TV.

Geralt pads out to the kitchen. He fishes his phone out of his pocket.

**Geralt: This is going to take a while. You might not hear from me for a few hours.**

Jaskier’s reply is almost instant.

_Jaskier: No worries x Thought as much. My mother said that she spent almost 24 hours in labour with me_

_Jaskier: Is she okay? Does she need anything or...?_

_Jaskier: Would that be super weird? The current boyfriend of her ex and baby-daddy offering to get her snacks and shit?_

**Geralt: I’m sure when the madness of labour pains clears she’ll appreciate it. Thank you.**

There’s a sharp huff in the living room that pricks his ears. Looking over his shoulder, he spots her with her head back against the back of the couch, breathing steadily. He frowns. Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he pads back into the living room. “Are you okay?” A redundant question. He hates it the second it leaves his lips. _Of course she’s not okay, you idiot. She’s in labour._

Yenn takes a steadying breath. “Yeah,” she rasps. Her eyes are closed, but a soft frown creases her forehead.

The pains come in waves, from what he can gather. He tentatively takes up a seat towards the edge of the couch, giving Yenn the space she needs. Eventually, when one particularly prickly pain wraps around her abdomen, it jerks her forward, bending her in half. “ _Fuck sake_ ,” she growls, her fingers curling around her knee.

Her knuckles are almost white.

“Here,” Geralt gentles. Fear of invoking her wrath completely abandoned, he shuffles over into her nest. He sets a hand to the small of her back, just over the soft fabric of her tee, and goes about kneading and palming the muscle there. “Does that help?”

She doesn’t answer for a while. Steady, long breaths push in and out of her. But eventually she nods. She reaches back for his hand, adjusting it slightly higher. It gets a better reaction. The muscle underneath his palm softens and relaxes. And the pain seems to ebb away, albeit slightly.

“This sucks,” she says firmly, pushing her hair back from her face.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before both of them find a laugh wracking through their bodies. “Yeah,” Geralt chuckles, “it looks shit.”

A tired sort of noise leaves her. “This is your fault, you know. You did this.” She gestures vaguely to her bump.

“I’m pretty sure you were there too,” he replies. “You have as much fault in this as me.”

Yenn’s smile is light. Her eyes fog slightly – whether it’s pain or tiredness causing a slight delirium, he doesn’t know. But her laughs are airy. “Hmm,” she sighs. A quietness laps over them for a moment. “I just want to meet her.”

“Me too.”

“What do you think she’ll look like?”

“A potato, probably.”

Yennefer half-heartedly slaps his arm. “Don’t be a prick,” she chides. “I mean, what colour will her hair be? Will she have any hair? Is she big or small, how many fingers and toes will she have?”

Geralt’s hand kneads her back. If it keeps Yenn somewhat lucid and the pain stays away, he’s happy to do it until his hand cramps up. But he draws in a steady breath. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, “I just...I hope she’s healthy, I guess.”

Yenn hums. Another quiet moment settles over them before a short sharp inhale of breath. “ _Fuck_ ,” Yenn says, wrapping her arm over her bump. Geralt’s hand stills. When the pain ebbs away again, she looks up at him through stray strands of hair that have fallen out of its tie. “That one was different.”

Geralt frowns. “Different how?”

“Painful,” Yennefer grimaces, “like, a sharp pain in my side. It’s not like the others.”

Geralt’s phone is already in his hand before he knows it. The midwife picks up on the second ring. He wordlessly holds the phone in between the two of them, with the midwife on speaker. Yenn explains the pain, grimacing slightly at the aftershocks.

The midwife clicks her tongue. “Well, come in and we’ll have a look,” she says simply. There are sounds in the background; flicking of pages and the clattering of keyboard keys. “Your labour might just be advancing.”

Getting back to the hospital is a blur. With her bag slung over his shoulder, Geralt ambles alongside Yennefer, holding out an arm for her – which she pointedly doesn’t take. _I’m fine,_ she grumbles, keeping a hand on the wall as she wanders towards the ward.

A room already waits for them. It’s painted in pastel colours like the rest of the ward, with one wall completely white while the others are a daisy yellow. Machines stand at attention at either side of the bed, with cables and wires looped around them. Geralt’s eyes immediately go to them.

Within what seems to be seconds, Yenn gets a cannula in the back of her hand and an oxygen monitor hooked on to one of her fingers. The midwife uncoils a cord around a nearby machine. “We’ll just pop this around your bump and check on your baby’s heartbeat,” she says, helping Yenn move slightly to get the cord all the way around her. Geralt hovers to the side of the room, but stays within an arm’s reach. Yenn looks to the monitor with the midwife, but her eyes keep flickering over to him.

Anyone who didn’t know her would say that she still looked quite calm. Her expression is smoothed into something collected. But he’s known her for years. He knows her little tells. The way the corners of her lips are subtly pulled down and her lips are thin. The way her chest lifts in deep, measured breaths. She’s scared.

The midwife hums as readings pop up on to the screen. A roll of paper flows out with a printed ECG on it. She runs her eyes over it. “Well, Baby seems perfectly fine,” she says, eyeing Yenn’s bump. “Labour pains can be different for everyone. But just in case, we’ll keep you here.”

Yenn breathes. “Alright,” she says, running her hand through her hair to fix it.

The midwife settles them both with a reassuring smile. “If, gods forbid, something does pop up, you’re in the best place now. But I doubt it. Everything in your file so far has you put at an easy labour. Your little girl is as fit as a fiddle. I’ll be a call button away if you need me. Until then, try and get some rest.” When the midwife leaves, all that’s left in the room is the occasional beep of a monitor.

There’s a faux-leather armchair in the corner of the room. Geralt shuffles it closer to the bed. “She has a point,” Geralt sighs, “you need to rest. When did you sleep last?”

Yenn sets her head back against the pillow. “I don’t know,” she says. Her head rolls towards him, her eyes slightly unfocused. “What about you? I can feel how anxious you are.”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“You’re so full of shit,” she smiles. Her words are starting to slur, just as her eyelids droop. Sleep slowly begins to tug her under.

Geralt sits back in his chair. “Get some sleep,” he gentles. She’s dragged under within seconds, her head lulling down slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop. There's a baby coming, folks. 
> 
> (Okay, so a bit of backstory - I've had the "Geralt and Yenn go to the hospital & the Whole Labouring process" written for weeks, possibly months. I just needed to work on this trash fire until that point. And when I was writing the last chapter, I sat with myself (during my Depressive Episode™) and decided, fuck it, Yennefer is going into labour in the next chapter. Pacing be damned. But the labouring/hospital scene was Super Long anyway, it was going to be it's own chapter, so I had to divide the chapter into two. Have fun!)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Geralt & Yenn in the hospital, going through labour. Something happens (nothing too serious!), but there's quite a lot of medical stuff. If you don't want to read it, that's cool! Skip down a few paragraphs towards the end. But there is no graphic birthing in this...because I don't want to write it lmao
> 
> Enjoy x

_Jaskier: Any news?_

**Geralt: Admitted to the ward. Yenn is sleeping, or trying to at least. No sign of the princess arriving just yet.**

_Jaskier: Good, you’re both in it for the long haul. Do you need anything?_

**Geralt: We’re alright. Thank you**

_Jaskier: No worries <3 Keep me updated!_

* * *

Months managed to slip by without him noticing, and now that she’s almost here, he struggles to hold in a sharp sigh when it turns out that their daughter is taking her sweet time about showing up. Midwives drift in and out of the room, checking on how dilated Yenn is every few hours. She progresses, which is a good thing. But they’re nowhere near seeing their daughter yet.

Geralt completes his latest circuit of the room before Yennefer bites out, “gods alive, Geralt, please do that out in the hallway. You’re making me nervous.”

So he walks around the ward, brushing shoulders with other nerve-wrecked soon-to-be fathers. Some fair better than others. He can see the seasoned pros, idly strolling towards the elevator to go outside for a smoke or to go downstairs to the cafeteria. The thought of eating twists his stomach. And he knows that Yennefer isn’t to eat anything – so out of some, ill-thought-of pact of solidarity, he’s going without food too. And he fucking hates himself for it.

When things change, it’s in the midnight hours. The hospital is in a quieter neighbourhood of Aedirn, but warm orange light from nearby streetlamps spill in through the windows. Both of them managed almost an hour of sleep before Yenn was woken up, almost bent in half at a particularly nasty contraction.

Their midwife slips into the room. “Okay,” she says, wrangling gloves on to her hands. “Let’s see how we’re doing.”

Geralt stays where he is, albeit leaning forward slightly to let Yenn grab his hand and crush it in hers. He knows when a contraction hits. He might just leave the hospital with a baby and a few broken fingers. But he sets his free hand on her arm, trailing his fingers up and down. “It’s alright,” he gentles. Whether any of it is getting through to her, or if it’s the last thing she wants to be hearing out of him right now, she doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he watches her breathe in as much laughing gas as she can get into her lungs.

The midwife’s face is unreadable. She’s been coming in and out, updating them on how far along Yenn is. But this is different. Even though he can’t read her face, the slight shift of her body language suddenly churns his stomach. She steps away from Yenn, pulling her gloves off. “Alright,” she says primly, “so your baby hasn’t dropped.”

Yenn’s face falls blank. “What?”

“She’s breaching at the moment.” The midwife talks to both of them, letting them both know what’s going on. Turning back to Yenn, her eyes soften. “You’re almost fully dilated, but her head isn’t where we need it to be.”

Geralt feels the colour starting to drip from his face. “What does that mean? Is she okay? The baby?”

“Oh, she’s fine it looks like it,” the midwife nods, gesturing to the monitor’s by Geralt’s shoulder, “her O2 levels are still good, but we need to get her moved before you dilate fully. The head is the biggest part of the baby. That needs to come out first and clear the way for the rest of her. If she comes out feet-first, like she is now, there’s a good chance she’ll get stuck and get distressed.”

The midwife sets a hand on Yenn’s hand. “I’m not trying to scare you, alright,” she gentles, “it’s good that we caught this now. I’ll go and have a word with the doctor and we’ll set your little one right.”

The midwife slips out just as quietly as she manages to get in. A groan is ripped out of Yenn’s throat. Not one of pain. One of sheer annoyance. “You and I are having a chat when you get out, you little creature,” Yenn grumbles, tossing an arm over her face. The rhythmic beating of their baby’s heart thumps out through the room. It’s the one constant thing that has been going on since getting here.

Geralt regards the monitors. It means absolutely nothing to him. But nothing is beeping erratically or flashing red, or an army of midwives and doctors haven’t swarmed into the room.

He sets his jaw. “You heard her; it’s good that she caught it now. It can be fixed.”

Yenn is quiet for a moment. Her breathing suddenly staggers. He blinks at the sight of a tear streaming down her cheek. “Hey, hey,” he gentles, “she’s okay. You can hear her heart beating, can’t you? She’s absolutely fine.”

Yennefer scrubs a hand over her face. “What if she doesn’t turn around?” she breathes. “Tissaia told me that sometimes they don’t and-”

“-Tissaia isn’t here,” Geralt fixes her with a firm stare. “If she doesn’t turn around, you’ll have to go for a caesarean.”

Yenn sniffs, laying her arms across her chest. She stares up at the ceiling. Her heart hammers in her chest. “There’s no need to worry,” Geralt says, “you’ll end up stressing her out. And right now, she’s more relaxed than any of us. I don’t even think she knows what’s going on.”

The midwife comes back into the room followed by two people – the OB from their scan a few months ago and a doctor already dressed in scrubs and a gown. The OB smiles. “I thought I said that I didn’t want to be here for this birth,” she laughs lightly, but the speed in how she works around the room tells him that her jokes are all put on just to get Yennefer to calm down.

She has a short conversation with the midwife and the doctor, trading medical jargon that he can’t follow. But he can grasp the essence of it. They’ll try and turn the baby themselves first. The OB rubs her hands together. “Sorry, they might be cold,” she apologises before setting her hands on Yenn’s bump. She puts slight pressure on some points, nodding and looking over her shoulder to the midwife. “And this is a confirmed breach?”

“During the last exam I couldn’t feel baby’s head,” she explains quietly. “But mum is progressing well and I thought maybe to run it by you first.”

The OB nods. “Alright,” she says. She turns back to Yennefer. “So we’re going to try and move Baby ourselves for now, okay? I’m going to keep pressing on your bump and hopefully Baby should just swing right round for us.”

Yenn looks at her warily. “What if she doesn’t turn?”

The doctor lifts his hand. “You’ll have to go to theatre for a c-section, unfortunately.”

“It’s not in your plan, I know,” the midwife gentles, “but it’s the safest way to get your baby out.”

Geralt watches the side of Yennefer’s face. Quick flashes of emotion show. They’re gone quickly. She’s always been adept at hiding her feelings, especially in front of strangers. But her resolve is starting to crack. Her eyes are reddening, with tears brimming. “Yeah,” she sniffs, lying back flat into the bed, “yeah, okay. You can try and turn her.”

The OB nods again. She’s a kind woman with a gentle voice, explaining everything as she’s doing it. She nods to the gas. “Take as much of that as you need,” she states. “This might hurt.”

Yenn’s hand curls around Geralt’s. He lets her squeeze it, knuckles whitening as the OB sets about trying to turn their little gremlin. Yennefer locks her teeth around the gas pump, staring straight up at the ceiling and squeezing her eyes shut.

He doesn’t know how long they spend at it. It could be two minutes. It could be ten. Every press to Yennefer’s bump earns a quick glance at the monitors from both the midwife and the OB. The doctor – a surgeon, Geralt realises – stands back with his arms folded, keeping an eye on another set of machines to the other side of the bed.

Yennefer’s face screws up. “There we go,” the OB says after a moment. The bump looks different. It’s lower, more sunken down towards Yenn’s feet. The monitor near him still rings out constant whirls of noise. Their girl’s heart is still fine. _She’s still fine_.

The OB takes a reading from the machine. “That should be it,” she says running her eyes over the result. She glances up at Yenn. “With the baby down, your labour will start quickening up. That’s why you were probably in so much pain before.”

“The little princess was being difficult,” Geralt grumbles, regarding Yennefer’s stomach for a moment. Of course she was going to be difficult. She’s their child. He has no doubt in his mind that Yenn _will_ have a stern conversation with their daughter the second she’s placed on to her chest, still red-faced and screaming at being wrangled out into a noisy new world.

Yenn squeezes his hand again. Her chest heaves with every breath. “Thank you,” she says to the OB and the doctor, both of them slinking out of the room.

The midwife claps her hands. “Right, hopefully that’s the last time we’ll see either of them,” she says, perching at the foot of the bed. “We’re just going to check how far along you are now, and we’ll see from there.”

From where they are at the head of the bed, the midwife seems so far away. Yenn slouches to the side slightly, gravitating towards Geralt. Her hand is still coiled around his, unwilling to let go. The midwife nods. “Well, it seems like we’re good to go!” she glances up at Yennefer. “You’re fully dilated. When the next contraction hits, I want you to give me a big push.”

The hand in his tightens.

He squeezes back.

* * *

She’s so small.

 _She’s so small_.

It’s the only thing that runs through his head. A whole hand barely wraps halfway around his finger. Her grip is sure as she hangs on, her other free arm flailing about. She’s just as active now as she was in the womb – making Yennefer’s earlier pregnancy a living nightmare.

“Hello little one,” he says softly. The words are barely over a whisper. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Her mouth stretches into a yawn, her grumbles and whines finally ebbing into little cut off noises. Her head rests against his bared chest. Skin to skin is best, according to the midwife. She left them almost an hour ago, happy that the last of the whole ordeal was over. She waited for a bit; keeping an eye on Yennefer’s vitals and making sure that she didn’t bleed. But she seemed happy to leave the new family to it – even when sleep washed over Yennefer.

Still, Geralt hovers near the bed. Yennefer sleeps, sweat starting to cool on her forehead. Strands of hair stick to her face and her cheeks are flushed, but she looks finally at peace. The monitors next to her blink and beep steadily, assuring him that she’s fine. His hand still thrums with pain from it being crushed. But it all ebbed away when the first piercing cry rung out through the room. When a wiggling, howling baby suddenly appeared and was set against Yenn’s chest. Everyone else in the room, a midwife and another OB who came in to check on the baby once she was born, all of it faded away.

The baby coos. Her grip on his finger tightens slightly. “Hmm?” he turns back to his daughter. Wisps of light coloured hair stick out from underneath her pink cotton beanie. He rocks her gently. She yawns again, and he doesn’t think that he’ll ever get over how thin and puckered her lips are, or how small her nose is – or the way it scrunches up when she worms around in his arms. She’s settled down. The second her skin pressed against Yennefer’s, when the woman coiled her arm around the baby and held her close, whispering _hello_ s and gentling praises, her crying stopped.

He presses a kiss to her hat-clad head. “Get some sleep, little princess,” he rumbles, taking her around the room. He wanders over to a window. Just over the Aedirn horizon, the sun is starting to poke its head up. The sky is a mess of purples and oranges and blues. In a nearby park, the grass mists with the crisp morning air.

She sticks her fist into her mouth, her pudgy arm still waving about. He fixes her hat, smoothing it over her tiny ears. She weighs practically nothing in his arms. With every rock, she drifts further and further into sleep.

* * *

There’s the matter over who to text first. He has enough photos of her on his phone to last a lifetime, and she’s only a few hours old. He picks one of the best ones – but in his own opinion, they’re all great – and sticks it into a mass text. He adds everyone worth telling; Jaskier, Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir. He’s sure that Yennefer has told her own friends. Mousesack, somewhere in Cintra, probably already knows. He can imagine the suit-clad man appearing down the ward halls armed with presents and balloons.

When he sends off the text, accompanied by his daughter’s name, the time of her birth, how much she weighed, he slips his phone back into his pocket.

Cirilla is bundled to Yenn’s chest. The woman is dressed in an oversized light sweater and joggers, and her hair is pulled back into a messy bun. The midwife and OB cleared them to go. If they can walk away from this labour with just a fixed breach, then they’re doing well. Of course, _ideally_ , he would have liked nothing to have gone wrong at all. But it’s labour. And from what he knows about it, anything can happen.

He slings Yenn’s bags over his shoulders. The car seat sits at the end of the bed, already set up and ready to go. “Ready?” Geralt asks, picking up a cream coloured blanket that Shani and the other girls bought a few weeks ago.

Yenn’s stupor is broken. Her head jerks up. “Oh, yeah,” she says, gently slipping off of the bed, “yeah, we’re good.” She winces slightly at standing up, but waves Geralt away when he goes to her side. “I’m fine. But could you carry the seat?”

He nods. “Sure.”

Ciri isn’t entirely pleased to part with Yenn’s chest. When she’s set into the car seat, her arms squirm and her face shrivels up into a grimace. A short cry leaves her lips. Yenn gentles her. “Hush now, little one, we’re just going home.”

 _Home_.

They worked it out between themselves. Ciri would stay with Yennefer, and Geralt would visit. When she’s old enough to be parted from her mother for longer periods of time, then she can start going to Geralt’s apartment to stay over there. He doesn’t have a problem with it. He’ll still be able to see his daughter whenever he wants. And he couldn’t bear the idea of dragging her away from Yenn.

When Ciri is settled and strapped into the seat, and Yenn covers her up with the blanket, Geralt picks it up. He rocks it slightly, easing Ciri’s little grumbles and whines.

Once they get back to Yennefer’s apartment, he checks his phone.

_Jaskier: OH_

_Jaskier: MY_

_Jaskier: GOD_

_Jaskier: GERALT_

_Jaskier: She’s so small I’m going to cry D:_

Eskel: How is it possible that a newborn looks grumpier than you?

**Lambert: She looks like an angry potato**

**Lambert: When can she do tricks?**

“Idiots,” Yennefer rolls her eyes. She fishes Ciri out of her chair and hoists her on to her chest. She catches Ciri’s tiny flailing hands in hers and coos. “Yes, the boys are idiots, aren’t they? They’re so dumb!”

The apartment suits Aedirn – exposed brick and modern units and large windows that look out on to the wealthy, corporate borough. And baby-fying it seems strange. It’s only a bassinet crib by Yenn’s bed and a few playmats strung around the living room floor, but it all looks out of place. Geralt pads out into the living room, smiling softly when he spots Yennefer sprawled along the couch, feet perched on the coffee table. Ciri is on her chest, a fist curled against her mouth.

Yennefer spots him. “Quiet,” she mouths, nodding down to a very asleep baby.

Geralt stalks over as quietly as he can, sitting down next to Yenn. Ciri’s face scrunches up slightly, but she stays asleep, mouthing at her hand. “She’s so small,” Yennefer whispers, a sort of marvel lilting her voice. “Like...I don’t know, something could come along and break her.”

Geralt hums. He wants to reach out; to run his fingers over the small stretch of Ciri’s back, through the light wisps of golden hair on her head. But he doesn’t want to wake her.

“I know it’s been hard for you,” Yenn mumbles, rocking Ciri gently, “trying to figure everything out, with Ciri and...I know you have a life outside of all of this.”

A soft frown creases his brow. “Ciri is my life,” he says firmly. “I...If anything else, Ciri comes first. I made that agreement with myself the second you told me that you were pregnant.”

Yennefer regards him for a moment. “But what about Jaskier?”

“He’s my life too,” Geralt replies. “I share it with a lot of people. But, I don’t know, this is different. Ciri depends on me. On us. She’ll come first. Jaskier...I love him, and he loves me, and he knows that I put Ciri’s well-being before his.” His frown only grows. “It’s not a nice thing to say but...he understands.”

Yennefer doesn’t say anything. Her lips dust the top of Ciri’s head, the baby scrunching her nose slightly before settling again.

“It’s not the most conventional of set-ups,” Geralt lifts a shoulder, “but...I don’t know. I’m not explaining it well. I haven’t slept much.”

Yennefer offers him a small smile. “No, I understand.”

Geralt hums.

“Ciri will have both of us,” Yenn says slowly, almost tasting the words. “I have no doubts about that at all. I’m just worried that, I don’t know, the other things that make you happy won’t be pleased that your time is spent elsewhere.”

“I told Jaskier about Ciri long before we started dating.” Geralt scrubs his face. “He understands. He’s been blowing up my phone for the past day and a half trying to get news on how Ciri is doing. And you.”

At that, Yennefer blinks. She tilts her head slightly. “And me?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “He offered to go to the shops and get you snacks, when you were labouring here,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip at how a storm of thoughts flash over her face.

“Oh,” she eventually says. A soft whimper suddenly leaves Ciri. Turning to catch Ciri’s flailing arm, Yennefer lets the baby curl her hand around her pinkie. She lowers her face down to the child, a broad smile suddenly over her lips. “Maybe some of the boys are okay, huh?” she asks, her voice nothing more than a soft whisper.

Geralt watches them. Ciri’s mouth stretches into a yawn before she nuzzles against Yennefer’s chest again, her head resting over Yenn’s heart. Within seconds, sleep slips back over the baby. This won’t be common. From all that he’s heard about new parents and their children, babies never sleep. They’re loud and messy and demand your attention at all times. But looking at her now – at her wisps of blond hair sticking up in every direction, at her chubby, red cheeks, or her tiny fist gripping some of Yennefer’s tee – he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bright streams of sunlight flood into the living room, crawling along the floorboards. Geralt takes stock of the house. Throughout being pregnant, Yennefer has collected and hoarded everything she could need for the baby when they arrived. But some of it won’t be used until Ciri is older. Until then, they’re both content to have her settled against their chests or in their arms.

Yennefer’s breathing starts to slow. When her eyelids droop, Geralt lifts his chin. “Here,” he offers, holding out his hands. “You need to rest. I can take her.”

The woman doesn’t look entirely pleased with being parted with her baby, but she eventually nods. She tries to swallow a yawn as she sits up.

Yennefer presses a kiss to the crown of Ciri’s head. The baby whines as she’s passed over, but as soon as she’s settled against Geralt’s chest, she reaches up and grabs a fistful of his tee. She settles within seconds. “Just for an hour,” Yennefer says, already setting an alarm on her phone.

Geralt smiles. “An hour.” Two things will happen; either Yennefer does only sleep for an hour, and she’ll seek out wherever Geralt is in her apartment and wrangle her baby back from him, or she’ll ignore her alarm and sleep for the rest of the day, and possibly through the night. The dark circles already settling under her eyes tell him that it might possibly be the second.

Yennefer shuffles out of the room. Once she’s gone, and he can hear the click of her bedroom door down the hall, he turns back to the baby in his arms. She still sleeps, huffing short breaths against his shirt. He peers down at her.

His phone buzzes. Fishing it out of his pocket, he smiles warmly at the name popping up on the screen.

_Jaskier: Where’s the baby?_

**Geralt: I’m holding her**

_Jaskier: Well yes, I know that silly_

_Jaskier: Where are the pictures of the baby?_

_Jaskier: Shani, Pris, and Essi are demanding more of them_

Geralt huffs a laugh. He takes and attaches a handful of them, mostly of Ciri’s sleeping face smushed against his chest. A small pool of drool is already seeping into the fabric of his shirt. And he can’t find himself caring at all.

Jaskier’s replies are instant.

_Jaskier: She’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen_

_Jaskier: Shani is crying_

Geralt’s thumb hovers over the screen. On his chest, Ciri shuffles, letting out a quiet gurgle. His hold on her tightens slightly, the firm contact lulling her back to sleep.

When he’s happy that she’s slipped back under, Geralt taps out a message.

**Geralt: When will you be over to see her for yourself?**

Jaskier’s reply isn’t quick. Geralt watches dots appear and disappear as Jaskier probably clambers together an answer.

_Jaskier: Will Yennefer let me come over?_

**Geralt: It’ll have to be a few days to get our shit together, but I can’t see why not.**

Ciri snuffles, her tiny fist clenching a handful of fabric and tugging it to her mouth. Geralt sets his hand at her back. She’s so small, that his hand almost envelopes her completely. He sets his nose on to the crown of her head. Vesemir had commented and joked about the new baby smell that was probably going to ruin his life. He remembers how fond the man’s eyes looked as he told Geralt about Lambert. _When I got him, he wasn’t even able to open his eyes yet_ , he recalled, _pulled the silliest faces. Blind as a damn bat. But there’s nothing like new baby smell._

And Geralt would have to agree. Even now, he doesn’t want to set her down. If she could stay where she is, nestled against his chest, dozing peacefully, for the rest of her life, he’d be content.

An hour slips by and suddenly his ears twitch at the sounds of Yennefer shuffling up the hallway. The bottoms of her sweatpants pool at her feet. Her body is completely drowned in a loose shirt that hangs off of one shoulder, and a cardigan that’s sleeves curl around her hands. With her hair pinned messily to the top of her head, she pads into the living room. Her arms are already outstretched. “Give me my damn baby,” she mutters.

Geralt huffs a short laugh. He eases himself up, gently handing Ciri over to Yenn. The baby squirms and her face scrunches up into a grimace; but the second Yennefer swaddles her to her chest, Ciri nuzzles in and settles down again.

The couch is big enough for the both of them. Most of their time spent together was lounging on it, legs spread out and half-lying on top of each other. Even now, Yenn takes up a place beside him, but with enough of a sliver of space to keep them from touching. But Ciri is still close. His chest tightens slightly at the thought of her being too far away.

Yennefer hums gently, running a finger along the swell of Ciri’s cheek. Flushed red and blotchy, she’s warm and soft. Yennefer smiles. It’s one that he hasn’t seen for almost a year. One that takes up her whole face, rounds her cheeks, and crinkles her eyes.

“She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” Yenn suddenly asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Geralt hums. Shuffling over, he peers down at Ciri’s snoozing face. For all the problems she gave them almost a day ago, and the wailing she did once she was brought into the world, it’s strange to see her so peaceful.

Some part of him says that it won’t last. She’ll cry, like all babies do. She’ll have tantrums and cause messes and be a mystery to him until she learns how to talk for herself. But he’ll love her.

Geralt straightens. “Do you want something to eat?” he asks quietly, mindful of the baby.

Yennefer shakes her head. “I’m alright,” she whispers, “do you?”

“No, I’m good.”

It’s a while before he speaks again. “Jaskier messaged me.”

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. Even bare-faced, with a slight hue of warmth smattered across her skin, she looks beautiful. “Oh?”

“He asked for pictures,” Geralt says, keeping his voice low, “his roommates think she’s the cutest thing they’ve ever seen.”

Yenn peers down at the baby resting against her chest. “Well, they aren’t wrong.”

Geralt hums. Ciri’s breathing is something he focuses on for a moment. Her lips pucker and move around nothing at all, and her hands still wiggle about. “I was wondering,” he starts, reaching out to let the girl wrap her hand around his finger, “when would you be comfortable allowing people here, to visit? I know Mousesack and Triss are probably lighting up your phone looking for dates.”

The question stews between them for a moment. Yenn’s nose buries into the wisps of Ciri’s hair. She takes a measured breath of her daughter’s scent. “If Jaskier wants to come over, that’s fine with me.” She looks at him. “He means a lot to you. And I keep telling you that I want you to be happy; and if this makes you happy, then go for it.”

Geralt feels his face warm with colour. “Thank you,” he breathes, reaching out to cup the back of Ciri’s head in his hand. And it floors him how small she is. That her whole head fits in his hand. Her ears, her nose, her tiny lines of lips, they’re barely the side of his fingertip. She snuggles between Yenn’s chest and his hand, knowing both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a little baby <3


	19. Chapter 19

He can’t bear the thought of putting her down. Ciri spends most of the time cuddled against one of them. She sleeps peacefully against his chest, swaddled against him with a blanket and using his collarbone as a pillow. She snuffles against his shirt and her closed fists flail about as she struggles to get used to her body now that it’s out in the wide world. She should be in her bassinet, hooked on to the side of Yennefer’s bed where she’ll be able to keep an eye on her during the night. But the thought of her being away from him, in another room, and unable to reach for her, sours his heart. Not even a day old and she already has him wrapped around her little finger. He’s doomed.

Eventually, he relents. He gently raps his knuckles on the portal of Yenn’s door, waiting for the woman to invite him in. She finishes up in her ensuite bathroom, pulling her hair back into a loose bun. When her eyes fall on him, and the baby nestled in his arms, a brilliant smile breaks out over her lips.

He pads into the room, gently setting Ciri into the crib. The girl’s face wrinkles into a frown when she leaves Geralt’s chest. He barely has her touching the crib’s cushion before she lets out a whine. And his heart breaks.

“It’s alright, princess,” Yennefer gentles, shuffling over the bed to the crib. She reaches down and smoothes a finger over Ciri’s cheek. “Hush now, we’re here.”

Tiredness seeps into his bones. The spare bedroom is just across the hall, but two doors stand in the way of him and his daughter. After a few crackling cries, both of them feeling a pull to pick the girl back up and swaddle her, Ciri slips off to sleep.

Yenn hovers over the side of the bassinet, her eyes locked on the tiny baby inside.

Geralt clears a lump in his throat. “I’m going to bed,” he whispers. He’ll leave his door open. Just in case. Whether Yennefer will do the same with hers, he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t want to ask. But he pads out towards the spare room across the hall, glancing over his shoulder at every creak in the floorboards.

* * *

Jaskier is the first to come over. Geralt collects him from the house, ignoring the slight glares he gets from the others as Jaskier all but vaults into his car. “Take pictures!” Triss calls out, just as the door closes.

On the drive over, Jaskier bombards him with questions. _How is Yennefer? How’s the baby? What does she smell like? The baby, that is, not Yennefer. Stop smiling Geralt, keep your eyes on the road._

And the man is nothing but a ball of jittering energy as they take the elevator up to Yenn’s apartment. Jaskier’s hands slip in and out of his pockets, wringing in front of him, only to go back to fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt. Eventually, Geralt threads one of his hands through Jaskier’s, and lets the man play with his fingers. Geralt smiles as Jaskier all but drags him out of the elevator and down the hall towards the apartment.

It’s different from how he’s feeling. It’s not that Ciri means to keep him up at night. If anything, he’s surprised at how well she does sleep, granted that she’s so fussy during the day. But sleep won’t pull him under. His mind is a maelstrom of thoughts and anxieties, lighting his veins on fire as he tosses and turns in bed. _Is she okay? Yenn’s there. But what if something happens to Yenn – what if..._

The woman steps aside, letting them both into her apartment. Despite being a jittery ball of energy, Jaskier tentatively steps into the entrance hallway. The hand he has clutching Geralt’s tightens and pulls as he tries to keep the other man close. Yennefer’s eyes go to their joined hands, but a small smile lifts the corner of her lips.

They shuffle into the living room. Mid-morning sunlight streams in through the tall lancet windows. Yennefer has her phone softly streaming music through the speakers she has dotted throughout her house. It’s nothing more than a gentle hum. Geralt’s stomach lurches at the sight of Ciri’s crib brought over to the couch in the living room. Soft whimpers crack through the air.

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand, fighting every urge to rush over to the bassinet and scoop the girl up into his arms.

Yennefer leads Jaskier over. When his hand slips away from Geralt’s, he has to stop a noise crawling up his throat. Yenn catches the edge of the crib, looking inside and shining a brilliant smile down at the baby. Jaskier follows, peering inside. “Oh gods above,” he whispers, not entirely sure of what to do with his hands. “She’s _so small_.”

Yennefer smiles, folding her arms over herself. “Isn’t she?” Violet eyes go from Ciri to Jaskier. She regards the man for a moment. “Do you want to hold her?”

At that, Jaskier suddenly balks. The colour drains from his face. “Oh, I,” he stammers, looking between Yenn, the baby, and Geralt. “I’m not, I’m not great with kids, babies, I mean. I wouldn’t know what to do-”

Yennefer catches his elbow. “Sit down,” she orders. Within seconds, her _lawyer_ voice has returned. And Jaskier follows, being easily led over to the L-shaped couch and settling down on it. Yennefer scoops Ciri up, gentling her as she wriggles and coos. “You’ll be nice to Jaskier, won’t you Princess?” she gentles, patting Ciri’s back while she walks over to the man.

Geralt tries not to smile, but it tugs at the corner of his mouth all the same. Two parts of his world colliding together in the back way possible. A laugh threatens to escape him as Yennefer bundles Ciri into Jaskier’s arms, adjusting him to support her head and back. “Like this,” Yennefer shows him. When she steps away, and Ciri is solely in Jaskier’s possession, Geralt lets out a huff of a laugh at the man’s face. A look of awe, mixed with a silent plea of _please don’t cry_.

But the girl’s eyes blink open. She’s still blind, only seeing blobs of shapes and nothing more. It’ll be a while yet before she’ll be able to make out faces. But she can understand voices. And even though Jaskier has only met Yennefer a handful of times, Geralt has played his music around Yennefer’s bump enough times for Ciri to make the connection. Bleary blue eyes gaze up at him, her mouth puckering and opening as Jaskier rocks her gently. Yennefer stays nearby, kneeling on the ground and setting an arm against the seat of the couch. “What do you think?”

“She’s gorgeous,” he breathes. The same reaction Geralt had to her when she first came barrelling into the world. Jaskier glances up at Yennefer, his eyes soft. “Thank you,” he says gently, “for letting me see her.”

Yennefer glances over to Geralt, before replying to Jaskier. “She’ll be in your life too,” she says, reaching out and smoothing the baby’s wispy hair. “She has a weird family, but a family all the same.”

* * *

Vesemir’s house sits in the forest, but has enough of an open clearing to the back of it to allow a long, mahogany picnic table and a barbeque. The table is already adorned with plates and glasses and flowers Jaskier insisted on collecting from the forest. Summer is waning, but before the sun can vanish for good, it sets about warming the last of the summer air just before autumn. Jaskier places the last jug of ice water on to the table before bustling back into the kitchen. Vesemir is in charge, because it’s his house. Eskel hovers nearby, peering into every pot and pan he can manage before Vesemir ultimately shoos him out.

Geralt smirks as the familiar shouts echo out into the clearing. Eskel scampers out, all but falling into his place beside Lambert – already picking at some roasted figs Vesemir set out for him. The red-haired man glowers as Eskel tries to nab some. “They’re mine, fucker,” he snaps, twisting his whole body away from Eskel. “If you want snacks, ask dad.”

Yennefer steps out of the house, adjusting Ciri nestled against her chest. Both of them are making use of the last rays of sun warming the air. A pale yellow sundress sits nicely on Yennefer, most of her baby weight having slipped off her relatively easily. Ciri is in a light blue dress, one that Jaskier bought her months ago when she wasn’t even born yet. Geralt’s chest warms at the sight of her.

She crows as she spots him, Yennefer walking briskly over to where he’s sitting. “Can you take her?” she asks, already handing the baby over. “This post-pregnancy bladder isn’t fun.”

Geralt nods. Ciri scowls for a moment, when she’s neither against either of them, but it disappears when he settles her against his chest. “Did you destroy your mum’s bladder? Hmm?” he gentles down at the baby. He takes the brunt of the small smack Yennefer hits against his shoulder. _Dickhead_ , she grumbles as she heads back inside.

Ciri gurgles against him, shoving her fist into her mouth as widening blue eyes scan around. Her head is still too heavy to hold up on her own, so he helps. He turns just enough for her to be able to see her uncles, still bickering over snacks. Ciri waves a pudgy arm at the sight of Jaskier stepping back outside, arms laden with baskets of bread and a canter of wine. Jaskier’s cheeks round with a smile as he sets a basket of bread down near them. “Hello princess,” he coos, placing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. He pulls back, smiling at Geralt. “Hello handsome,” he lulls, leaning in to press a firm kiss to Geralt’s lips.

Holding Ciri easily with one arm, Geralt winds the other around Jaskier’s waist, holding him close as he deepens the kiss. A sigh slips out of Jaskier when there’s a sharp crow—

“None of that,” Lambert says from across the table, over dramatically shielding his eyes. “Please, children are present.”

Jaskier parts them, but presses a light peck to the tip of Geralt’s nose. “I can kiss my boyfriend as many times as I like.” Levelling Lambert with a mock glare, Jaskier sets his hands on his hips. “And who are you to try and protect her innocence – you have an outstanding bet going on that her first word will be _fuck_.”

At that, Lambert lifts a shoulder. He does. And there’s quite a lot of money in the pot for it, if Geralt remembers correctly. He peers down at the girl in his arms; wide blue eyes scanning the table and a wiggling arm trying to reach out and grab something. Jaskier lets her grab his finger, a wide smile stretching across his lips as she shakes it and tries to yank it. “I need them for work, Princess,” he says, slipping into a seat beside Geralt and leaning against him. Despite that, though, he doesn’t try and wrangle his finger back. She’s slowly getting used to the world, but still marvels at everything. Summer brought bright sun and chirping birds. And every visit to Vesemir’s house in the forest, Geralt will bring her to the edge of the forest. Tall, evergreen trees tower above them. The forest floor is blanketed with flowers of every colour. Some of them have been yanked up out of the ground, Ciri enthralled with the feel of them squished in her hands.

The table is mostly covered with a parasol. The shade is nice. A gentle cool breeze blows in from the trees, carrying thick scents of leaves and flowers. But the late-summer sun has been scorching and he wants his child as covered as possible. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Ciri’s head rests against his chest, one of her hands curling into the fabric.

Jaskier settles a hand at the back of her head, gently palming the wisps of bright blond hair starting to catch the light. A gentle hum of conversation laps over the table. Eskel and Lambert talk about the garage – new clients and their orders and what to do in the future year. Further down, Shani, Pris, and Essi chatter among themselves. A trip across the sea is planned, or something like that. One that Jaskier isn’t going on.

 _I want to stay here_ , he told Geralt one night as he worried about keeping the man here, instead of letting him loose out on to the world. Jaskier buried his nose into the hollow of Geralt’s neck. _I’m happy here._

His ears twitch at the sound of Vesemir calling out for the boys. Eskel and Lambert go, nudging each other to get through the back door first. Smells of roast beef and potatoes float out, alongside the sharp sting of coleslaw and pickles. When the plates come out, and both Lambert and Eskel take their time dotting them throughout the table, Vesemir steps out into the garden. He settles a hand behind Geralt’s chair, leaning down slightly to dust a fingertip on the end of Ciri’s nose. “How is the princess?” he smiles as Ciri turns to squint at him. She’s still getting used to other people’s voices. But with how much the elder dotes on her, Vesemir is slowly becoming one of Ciri’s favourites. Vesemir turns to look at Geralt. “Are you sure she won’t have anything to eat? I can make some mashed potatoes or carrots?”

Ciri squeals, reaching out to try and catch Vesemir’s finger in hers.

Geralt shakes his head. “Yenn already fed her,” he says, lightly bouncing the girl in his arms. She buries a high-pitched giggle into his chest. It’s only been a few weeks and she’s grown so much already. The nights he spends away from her, when she’s in Yenn’s apartment, sleep isn’t kind to him. There’s a pull that wants to drag him from Kaedwen to Aedirn, to leave his apartment in the middle of the night just to wander over and see if his daughter is okay.

But Yennefer has mentioned it already – _when do you want to take her?_

And the thought terrifies him; having her for the night. The days are fine. They’re good. Yenn went back to work as soon as she was cleared to do so. Ciri comes to his apartment for the day while Yenn is held up at the firm. The girl spends her days pillowed on Eskel’s chest as he watches TV or lying sprawled out underneath a baby gym, pawing at toys dangling above her. And Geralt is never too far away, ears always pricked to every sound she makes.

But spending the night is something else.

A hum of conversation laps over the table. Yenn comes back to take a seat beside Geralt. Vesemir retreats, taking his place at the head of the table – not before offering Yennefer a small smile.

A plate loaded with lemon-seared chicken and green salad is set in front of him. Jaskier clicks his tongue. “I swear,” he grabs his own plate, “all that Vesemir taught you lot and manners wasn’t one of them.”

Geralt snorts. The scent of roast chicken rumbles his stomach. Ciri wiggles against his chest, trying her best to crane her neck and see what everyone else is doing. It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but he eventually settles her against his chest. Ciri fidgets with the bottom of his shirt and gazes inquisitively at everyone around the table.

Its a tradition within his family; to gather together to see out the last of the summer days. A family that was Vesemir and his pups and no one else. Geralt looks around at those gathered at the table this year; Jaskier by his side, splitting his time between cooing at Ciri and hurling insults back at Lambert across the table; Yennefer on the other side of him, quietly laughing into a glass of water; Shani, Pris, and Essi scattered around the table and chattering to Coën and Eskel. A family that has pieced itself together over the years. And the squirming girl perched on his lap, trying to reach out and grab a flower in the middle of the table. Geralt’s heart swells.

His shoulder is nudged. He glances over to Jaskier, the man softly smiling at him. “All good?” he asks, his voice nothing more than a quiet rasp.

Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile. “All good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a light fluffy chapter this time because I feel like literally shit ✌🏻


	20. Chapter 20

_Jaskier: How’s it going? Is the flat in flames yet?_

**Geralt: Not yet, but the night is young.**

_Jaskier: You’ll do brilliantly xox And you have help. You brothers are there, right? And I’m a frantic phone call away x_

**Geralt: Thank you. For everything.**

Geralt glances up from his phone at a soft sound drifting up from the floor. Sprawled out among her toys and underneath her baby-gym, Ciri lies pawing at the dangling toys above her. She came paired with bags of everything he could ever need – diapers, wipes, clothes, toys, food. And she’s only staying for a night. He’s been with her through the days, driving over to Yenn’s apartment when he’s able to, spending hours just doting on the baby.

But he has her for the night now. The first night of it just being him and her. And it’s to get her used to it; Geralt and Yennefer won’t ever get back together again, and their daughter will have to split her time with them as she grows up. It’s best to get her used to the strange routine now, while she’s still young. But it’s unchartered waters, and his stomach churns at the thought of having the baby solely relying on him.

He’s not alone. His brothers, his father, Jaskier, Yennefer; they’ve all given assurances and offered assistance if needed.

Ciri whimpers, and he’s out of his chair within seconds. He scoops the girl up from the floor and into his arms. “Hey now,” he gentles, bouncing her lightly against his chest. “What’s wrong, little cub?”

It’s late in the afternoon, but the sun is struggling to keep itself just above the horizon. The sky outside is a stretch of orange and reds and purples. Ciri still has to be fed and changed and put to bed – a crib pushed up against the side of Geralt’s bed, close enough to keep an eye on her during the night. He’s made peace with the fact that she’ll keep him up throughout the night. Not because she’ll cry. According to Yennefer, she sleeps quite well. It will be worry keeping sleep from him; worry that if he takes his eyes off of her for even a second, something will happen to her.

But she quietens, burying her nose into the fabric of his tee and sighing. A broad smile stretches across his lips. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs, taking them to the kitchen to grab her bottle, “you just wanted dad’s attention.”

The apartment is quiet. Lambert and Eskel are at the garage, and will be there until seven. Vesemir is lingering nearby, hackles raised that his pup could need help with the baby. He’s been lighting up Geralt’s phone ever since Yennefer dropped Ciri off all those hours ago. Not even Yennefer has been that inquisitive as to how Ciri is getting on.

And Jaskier is at his own home, scrawling new melodies and lyrics into his notebooks.

Geralt walks them back to the living room, the TV lowly drolling on in the background. He’s lost interest in it almost an hour ago, preferring to keep watch over his daughter playing on the floor. He settles back into his usual spot on the couch, manoeuvring Ciri into his arms. She fusses for a moment, not entirely sure where he pillow in the form of her father’s chest has gone. But she settles as soon as he brings the nub of her bottle to her lips.

She’s still so small, and it floors him. A baby that barely fits into the nook of his arm. The world is still a blur to her, but his breath catches when he watches her try and turn her head whenever a new, familiar voices floats into the room, or how her face scrunches up in concentration when she tries to focus on something.

Tiny fingers try and clasp on to the bottle. Her arms and legs still flail about, even bundled in blankets against the cooling autumn winds. Geralt frees his pinkie finger from holding the bottle and offers it to her, letting her reach out and grab on to it. Her grip is firming up. She’s getting more sure of herself. A bloom of warmth seeps through him whenever she’s against him. They couldn’t set her down when she was born, gods forbid something would happen to her. She was always nestled in someone’s arms – mainly Geralt’s or Yenn’s. In those early days where Yenn recovered and rested on the couch with Ciri swaddled against her, Geralt pottered around the apartment. He cleaned and cooked and made sure that Ciri was okay while Yennefer slept.

By the time Ciri finishes her bottle, and he gentles her against his shoulder and pats her back, the door to the apartment clicks open. A murmur of conversation drifts up the hallway. Ciri frowns.

Eskel is the first to step into the living room, almost faltering as he spots Geralt and the girl. Lambert knocks into his back. He’s about to shout, his mouth already open and a frown creasing his brow, before the fair-haired man shushes him. “The baby!”

Lambert grunts, pushing at Eskel’s shoulder. “Then _move_. Quit stopping in front of me—”

Ciri squirms. A low rumbling growl slips out of Geralt’s throat, tempering the argument about to ignite between the two men. When silence falls back over the room, Ciri settles.

Lambert and Eskel both step into the living room, mindful of their steps against the hardwood floors. Shoes and boots have been left at the door. There’s no fear of heavy footfalls irritating the baby. But still, with Ciri starting to get tired and grumpy, who knows what might set her off.

Eskel gestures to the kid. “Do you need any help?” he whispers. It’s almost too low to even be heard, fighting to win out over the low hum of the TV.

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says, somewhat surprised at how firmly it comes out, despite the maelstrom of worry and doubt churning inside of his stomach and mind. He gentles Ciri back into the crook of his arm. She stuffs half of her fist into her mouth, idly gnawing at it.

Eskel cranes his head. He’s the gentler of the two brothers, inquisitive and wanting to help. Not that Lambert doesn’t. But he keeps his distance. He doesn’t _hate_ babies, but he doesn’t know what to do with them. Gods forbid if they ever started to cry when he was holding them.

Then again, he assumes that Geralt knows what to do with a baby – and he hasn’t got a godsdamn clue. For the moment, he’s happy to glance down at Ciri trying to eat her own hand, bright blue eyes squinting and trying to focus on his face. He’s nothing but a blurred blob to her right now, but her eyes will get better. Their first appointment with the doctor is coming up – the midwife’s clearance of them can only stretch out so far. Sooner or later, they’re going to have to start bringing the baby in for checkups and exams, and Geralt might just get sick with worry.

He stands from the couch, cradling Ciri against him. “Alright, princess,” he sighs, grabbing a soft blanket from the back of the couch and tossing it over his shoulder. “Say goodnight to your uncles.”

The fair-haired man visibly preens at the title. “Goodnight, little one.”

When Geralt pads past the kitchen, Lambert sticks his head out. Pots and pans already sit on burners, with the smell of a late dinner beginning to waft out throughout the apartment. His usual frown smoothes as he watches Ciri’s mouth stretch out into a big yawn. “Night, gremlin.”

Geralt barely bites down on the urge to roll his eyes. Lambert might be a grump and a prick, but underneath it all, he’s just as entranced by the baby as the rest of them.

The others are good to keep their noise down. The apartment, while not particularly small or big, does tend to reverb sound. But all he can hear as he pads down the hallway is the slight shuffling and clicking of pans in the kitchen. His room is as modified for the baby as he could get it. A crib is pushed up against the side of his bed, already lined and packed with everything she could need; blankets and toys to hang on to during the night. Her bags sit in the corner of his room, some of the contents already spilled out on to the floor. Clothes and diapers and wipes. It all looks so out of place in his otherwise empty room; a simple collection of four white walls, a bed, a desk and chair, and a wardrobe.

Ciri yawns again, stretching out in his arms. He sets her gently on his bed, reaching out to drag the bag over to him. The baby seems enthralled by the ceiling, looking up at the mottled plaster and the shadows cast across the roof by afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window.

“Let’s get you ready for bed, hmm?” Yenn packed more clothes than he could possibly need. _She could make a mess_ , she reasoned, stuffing a fifth pair of leggings into the bag. Inside are collections of tees, dresses and skirts, leggings, and bibs. Underneath that are some onesies. Ciri seems content enough to gnaw her own fist while he changes her into her pyjamas, only letting out a slight whine when he has to pull the neckline of the onesie over her head. She’s parted with her make-shift chewtoy for a second, but he’s quick to guide her hand back to her mouth. “Here you go, you weirdo.”

With her changed, he sets her in her crib. She fusses for a moment, not entirely content with being away from him. He lurches to the window, quickly sliding the curtains across and dimming the light in the room. It helps, a little bit, with Ciri’s whimpers starting to thin. “It’s alright,” he gentles. Geralt flings his shirt and jeans into the corner of the room. Even though the nights are beginning to cool, he runs warm during the night. And sleeping next to Jaskier for so many nights have left him with the habit of sleeping in nothing but his boxers. He slips into bed, perching his head under a folded arm just enough to be able to peer into Ciri’s crib. He watches her flail about, trying to settle and for her whimpers to ebb away.

Eventually, a day full of travelling across the boroughs and playing in the living room catches up to her. Geralt’s eyes hood when Ciri begins to slip away, her breath deepening and levelling off as she dips into sleep.

* * *

Geralt’s eyes twitch open a few hours later. His body has learned the routine of getting up to feed the baby, even if his mind is still fogged and struggles to catch up. He sighs into his pillow, trying to bat away the last of the cobwebs knitting his muscles together as he shuffles out of bed. Ciri twitches in her sleep, probably lost in a dream. He rubs a hand over his face. She’s good to sleep. She’d sleep through the night if he let her. But she needs to be fed and for that, he needs to gently nudge her awake.

She whimpers at being plucked out of her bassinet, wiggling her clenched fists around in protest. Geralt hushes her. “It’s okay,” he mumbles into the quiet darkness of the room. “You can go back to sleep soon.”

He grabs a blanket Yennefer uses in her apartment and swaddles Ciri in it. She settles slightly at the warmth from it, and probably the faint scent of her mother.

The apartment is utterly silent as he steps out into the hallway. His brothers went to bed hours ago, and the apartment is cloaked in darkness. He feels his way towards the kitchen, wincing at how the floorboards creak under his step.

His eyes fight to stay open as the light blinks to life. Ciri nuzzles her face into the crook of his arm. “I know, princess,” he mumbles, rooting through the fridge to find where he put her bottle. The others wouldn’t have moved it. If anything, Eskel even offered to make up more while Geralt was about to head off to bed. But if she’s only staying over for the night, there wasn’t any point having more than four bottles stacked into the fridge. Of course, he had to move Lambert’s beer – but the youngest of them didn’t say anything about it. Well, not to his face at least.

His ears twitch at the sound of clicking against the hardwood floor. He glances over his shoulder. Roach pads into the kitchen, her footsteps slightly slowed and off-centre. No one should be awake at this hour, not even the dog that happily sleeps through storms and winds. But she can’t seem to leave Geralt’s side; especially when there’s a tiny pup cradled in his arm. “Hey there,” he greets her. Roach’s tail slowly wags, barely flicking from side to side as she pads over to his feet. She peers up at what he’s doing, cocking her head slightly at the possibility of treats. Geralt huffs a small laugh. “This isn’t for you, darling. I’ll get you something in the morning.”

She stays by his side as he wanders out into the living room. Ciri is quiet enough in his arm, still swaying between falling back asleep and staying awake. He gently rocks her, trying to find the remote to the TV; because if he’s going to be awake at gods-only-know how early, he might as well have something to watch. And late night/early morning TV is always weird. He learned that through sleepless nights all those months ago—

He catches himself. Settling back with Ciri, bringing the nib of the bottle to her lip and sighing happily that she actually starts to feed, he catches himself.

It’s been a year. Over a year, actually. He picks back at his memories, trying to remember when he and Yennefer broke up and, yeah, it’s been over a year.

He lets Ciri catch his little finger while she feeds, gently tugging at it as she gets used to grabbing on to things, and he just thinks. It’s been _over a year_. And time has just drifted by. He’s trudged through the early parts of it, his legs getting caught in the mud and he stumbled. There were moments when he thought he might even drown, sinking further and further down until that heavy feeling sat clung around his throat.

And then there was that party; the roof and meeting bright blue eyes. And for the first time, he managed to clamber up and out of the mud. He still stumbled. He was always going to, dealing with the hand he was dealt. But he got out, and has Jaskier firmly set into his life.

And Ciri—

He looks down at the baby, utterly enthralled at her just lying in the crook of his arm, doing something as mundane as drinking from a bottle. And his heart stutters in his chest.

When the bottle is done with, he sets it on the mahogany table in front of him and sets Ciri against his shoulder, rubbing gently along her back. She’s so tiny. His hand covers the whole of her back. Her hand can’t even wrap around his finger yet.

He almost flinches at the feeling of the couch seat beside him dipping. Roach hops up on to the couch, trying to be slow and gentle and not disturb the baby. She’s been inquisitive about Ciri – nosing at the baby bags in Geralt’s room, sniffing out clothes and bottles, wondering what it’s all for.

And while Roach lifts her lip at Lambert and has her affections bought by Eskel from the number of times he sneaks her homemade treats, she’s gentle around the baby. Some part of Geralt knows that she’s looking at the child, knowing that it’s his pup. She can probably smell him on her. But when Ciri fusses and whimpers, flailing her arms about, Roach leans forward and dusts her nose against the crown of Ciri’s head.

Ciri stops fussing; more curious about the wet nose poking at her more than anything else.

A small laugh huffs out of Geralt. “Good dog,” he murmurs, reaching out to scratch behind her ears.

With Ciri resting against his shoulder, held there by a firm hand, Geralt picks up his phone. It’s an ungodly hour in the morning, so he doesn’t expect anyone to be up. Be he goes through texts sent to him when he was asleep. Some of them are from Jaskier, others are reminders from his brothers that he doesn’t have to come into work early tomorrow.

Jaskier’s icon catches his eye.

He’s online. Why he’s awake, Geralt will never know. It’s not a new thing. Both of them will go to bed at the same time, but he’ll often drift awake in the early morning hours with Jaskier sat up against the headboard of the bed, scrawling notes or melodies into notebooks or just scrolling on his phone. Not that Geralt minds. He’s still in their bed, just an arm’s reach away.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard, dusting the face of his screen. Before it can blink to black, he types out a message.

**Geralt : I love you so much. I hope you know that. Thank you for putting up with so much of my shit. You didn’t have to, but you did, and I can’t explain how much I love and appreciate you for it. **

His mind only catches up with him as soon as he sends it. And his heart trembles in his chest when Jaskier’s icon pops up beside the message. _He’s seen it_.

And Geralt’s breath almost stops completely when _typing_ scrawls across the foot of the screen.

_Jaskier : Well. That’s a text to get at three in the morning..._

_Jaskier : Having a kid has made you a big softie, and honestly...I’m kinda digging it_

Geralt snorts.

**Geralt : Don’t get used to it.**

_Jaskier : And the grump returns <3_

_Jaskier : Are you up with Ciri?_

**Geralt : Why else would I be up at three in the morning?**

_Jaskier Idk. Maybe you miss me x_

**Geralt : Without you around being a night-owl maybe I can get a full night’s sleep. **

_Jaskier : Geralt. _

**Geralt : Jaskier. **

Ciri’s mouth stretches into a big yawn. He struggles not to do the same as sleep suddenly starts to tug at him again. He switches off the TV and stands, bringing Ciri, her blankets, and Roach with him back to his room. Roach pads by his side, not rushing out to the bed like she usually does. If anything, she keeps peering up at Geralt. More specifically, the thing in his arm. Ciri slowly slides back off to sleep, pillowing her head into his chest. Her fist loosely catches and holds on to some of his tee. He’ll have a hard time trying to put her down.

Roach leaps up on to the bed, taking her usual spot at the foot of it. She turns in circles and paws at the sheets until she roots out a comfortable nest for herself. Though, she still watches Geralt carefully as he sets Ciri into her bassinet. She only lets out a slight whimper, but sleep washes over her again soon enough. He takes a moment to just stand there. He’s entranced by her. How something so small and good can come out of a maelstrom like him and Yennefer.

He doesn’t know how much time slips by as he watches her tumble further and further into sleep. He’ll have to wake her again in a few hours, just as the sun is about to rise. And after that, Yennefer will come to pick her up. His chest tightens at the thought of her leaving. He’ll probably follow Yennefer over to her apartment, happy to spend the day there again.

Sleep pulls at him, waning his bones. He slips back into bed, peering over the edge of the crib to take one last assuring look in at his daughter. She’s sleeping. Her chest lifts and falls in steady, deep breaths. She’ll stay asleep for a few more hours. And knowing that loosens the constricting force around his heart, letting it slip back into a normal rhythm.

So he lets sleep tug and pull him under, pillowing his arm underneath his head, and letting his eyelids droop closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, it's me. Listen, you know how Geralt and Jaskier are finally together, and Ciri is born, and Geralt seems to be ace-ing through this whole Dad thing while finally getting to terms with, and getting over, his past mental struggles?
> 
> What if...I took an axe to Geralt's happiness?
> 
> :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Long Chapter. I could have split it into two, but it didn't have a good "Split Here" point, so you're getting all of it. 
> 
> Good luck.

Days tick by. Ciri swans in and out of his life. The clenching around his throat and chest starts to ebb away the more time she spends with him. She’s still a mystery and a wonder to him; though, he knows that until the first words tumble out of her mouth, she’ll always be a mystery to him, and even more of a wonder.

On the nights she spends at Yennefer’s, he drives over to Redania. Dinners and movie nights and hang-outs loosen his chest and he can breathe, even when the other man lures him to his room and wrings pleasure out of him. Even when the baby isn’t with him, he finds himself thinking and talking about her a lot. Essi and Shani get the most out of him – demanding to see every photo he’s ever taken of the girl, which is most of his phone’s memory at this stage.

It’s quiet. Peaceful, even. And his lungs can fill with air and he doesn’t feel the need to fidget with anything. The warm weight of Jaskier cuddled against him on the couch is enough.

But he can’t quite pick out when it all changed.

It was a quiet enough afternoon. Yennefer had Ciri for the night, so Geralt went to Redania and ate what seemed to be his weight in food. Full and warmed by the body cuddling against him, his eyes started to droop and hood. A movie droned in the background, one that still had the three women in the house enthralled. He didn’t have to look down at Jaskier to know that his attention was starting to wane as well. He had been getting heavier against Geralt’s side with every passing minute. And his fingers and hand preferred to drift over Geralt’s chest and arm.

He’s almost lulled to sleep when a phone started to buzz. It shook him awake, but in an instant, Jaskier sat up. A chill nipped at his side where the man once was. Jaskier fished his phone out of his pocket and scurried into the hall to take the call. Essi rolled her eyes, grumbling something or other about the man would have made any excuse to not watch one of her films. If that was the case, Geralt wanted to know why Jaskier didn’t help him escape too.

He was gone for a while, or what seemed like it. Without him there, keeping the chill away and idly playing with the fabric of his shirt, time waned on.

By the time Jaskier came back, the movie was near its end. He shuffled back into the room, putting his phone on the arm of the couch and falling back into Geralt’s side once the man lifts his arm for him. Geralt turned his head, pressing a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head. “Alright?” he rumbled.

Jaskier blinked up at him. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. Everything’s fine.”

By the time the movie finished, and their small hoard of snacks, plates, and cups were cleared from the living room, the sun slips beneath the horizon. Geralt stretched out his back, wincing slightly at how his joints cracked and his muscle protested. Jaskier put the last of the dishes in the dishwasher.

He looked to be somewhere else. His eyes weren’t totally there, looking down at himself or his hands, or slipping his phone out of his pocket to check something.

Geralt caught his hand just as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Hey,” he hummed, keeping his voice low. “Are you okay? You seem a bit distant.”

Jaskier lifted a shoulder. “I’m good.” The smile that curved along his lip wasn’t one of his usual ones. It’s stretched and fell as soon as he turned to walk upstairs. Geralt followed, watching the other man carefully as they padded towards his room.

And it could have been any other night. Jaskier already stood in sleeping clothes, so just pulled off an oversized sweatshirt, one that Geralt was pretty sure belonged to him at some point, and tossed it over the back of his desk chair. Geralt slipped into bed first, watching the other man shuffle around the room, plugging his phone in to charge, making sure that his curtains were closed enough to not let any morning light in the next day. Normal things that Jaskier normally did.

Geralt pillowed an arm behind his head. When Jaskier eventually slipped into bed, it took him a while to find his usual place, stuck to Geralt’s side.

The room was dark. The further into autumn they slipped, the shorter the days got and the more the nights stretched out. A soft orange glow struggled into the room, highlighting the edges of the furniture.

Jaskier shuffled close, half-hiding his face into the hollow of Geralt’s neck.

He was tight, not entirely settled. And when Geralt looped an arm around his shoulders, letting his fingers skim down the bumps of Jaskier’s spine, the man held firm.

A small sigh left Geralt. “Something’s bothering you,” he murmured. The house was quiet. Maybe the others filed back to their own rooms. Or else they moved on to another movie. He wasn’t sure. But all there was now was a heavy silence that sat above them, almost suffocating.

Jaskier’s fingers fidgeted with the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. “I got a call,” he tried, tasting the words on his tongue, “from a producer.”

Geralt waited. Maybe something else would tumble out of the other man. But when the quiet stretched on for a minute, Geralt prodded. “What did they want?”

Jaskier was slow with his response. “They, uh.” His fingers gripped on to a sliver of Geralt’s shirt, eventually letting it go. His palm smoothed across the ripple in the fabric. “They heard my music. They want to meet with me to...to talk about some opportunities that they could give me.”

Geralt’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?” he asked. The man beside him hummed. “Jask, that’s great!”

“Hmm.” Jaskier buried his face even further into Geralt’s neck. His words were almost lost to the man’s skin. “Listen, I’m really tired. Can we talk more about it in the morning?”

Geralt turned, pressing a kiss to the crown of Jaskier’s head. “Of course,” he mumbled into his hair. “I’m proud of you. You’ve worked so hard.”

Jaskier didn’t settle that night. It took sleep a long time to wind its fingers around him and drag him under. Geralt, most of his energy lost to looking after a baby, fell asleep straight away. And he stayed under right into the late-morning. Even when the faint smells of grilled bacon and toast slipped underneath the crack of the door, luring him awake, he blinked at the empty, cold side of the bed where Jaskier once had been.

They didn’t talk about it that morning.

* * *

And then there’s now.

**Geralt, 9:02 am : Good morning, hope you slept well. **

**Geralt, 12: 39 pm : Eskel told me about some new pizza place opening up in Cintra if you’d like to go some night?**

**Geralt, 16:23 pm : *image attached* Ciri threw up on Lambert’s favourite shirt and I thought you’d appreciate a picture of it. **

Nothing. Jaskier’s icon still sits at the top of his screen. They spoke a bit the night before – a conversation that was a bit one-sided on Geralt’s side now that he has the wherewithal to have a proper look through their chat. He scrolls through it, a small frown creasing his brow. The garage heaves with noise outside, muffled through the walls and windows of the office. Roach snoozes in her bed, exhausted after her early-morning play with Coën.

Jaskier is busy. It’s something he’s been telling himself since he’s noticed the oftentimes one-worded replies to his texts. The other man mentioned something or other about a potential music deal. It was still in the works. _Nothing to worry about just yet_ , Jaskier assured him when they had a phone call a few days ago. He had seemed happy enough then; a bit stressed out with what he needed to bring to this meeting and what to wear, but happy. So they talked for over an hour, with Ciri playing on the floor in Geralt’s living room and thrilling when Eskel joined in on the games.

But now...

Geralt sets his phone aside. _He’s busy_. Geralt’s life is busy too – pulled at by a full-time job and caring for a post-natal woman who _doesn’t want to be cared for_ , and a baby. Jaskier’s life wasn’t put on pause just because Geralt’s was one match away from being engulfed in flames.

His chest pangs. He’s tried to be there for the other man; listening to him endlessly ramble on about concerts he’s played and how much, or little, he was paid for them. And now there are whispers about some deal in the works. He tries to be happy. But being met with a wall of silence, or worse, a slow slog of texts almost ripped out of him, it isn’t entirely pleasant.

There’s a knock against the office door. Geralt’s eyes break away from the computer screen. Lambert stands just outside the door, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and drying oil-stained hands in a rag. He nods to the entrance before disappearing back into the garage.

Geralt stands. Roach lifts her head from her cushion, regarding the man for a moment. For the first time in a long time, sleep wins out over her curiosity and urge to follow him. A plush bed, full stomach, and a cranked-up heater chasing away the brisk autumn chill will do that.

Vesemir. Geralt frowns. “Hey.”

The elder takes his time looking around the garage. They’ve changed nothing about it. It’s still as cluttered and unkempt as Vesemir had it – the same way they were brought up in it. It’s an organised chaos, they always reasoned, knowing exactly where every part and tool was amid the mess. The only new thing he can think of is the stereo system Lambert wired into the place. Vesemir liked to hook up the radio and listen to old songs purring through the speakers. But the radio has been busted for years, and Lambert would rather blast his own music through his phone so he grabbed a ladder and some wire and did the job himself.

Vesemir’s lips thin. “How’s business?”

Always to the point. Geralt nods. “Good. Customers are getting their appointments before the winter and new suppliers have joined up with us. Do you want to check the invoices?”

“Gods no.” His chuckle is breathless. “That shit is all on you now.”

He stalks over to a nearby car. Jutting out from underneath it, Geralt spots Eskel’s legs. He’s been tinkering with a leaking exhaust pipe for a few days, grumbling curses under his breath at nothing seeming to work. Vesemir regards the car for a moment, humming at how the rest of it seems to look good.

“How’s the baby?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the car. “And Yennefer?”

“They’re good. Yennefer has her today. She’s dropping Ciri over tonight.”

Vesemir doesn’t turn to him, but his voice does lower slightly. “And Jaskier?”

“Good, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“We haven’t spoken much today.” Geralt’s jaw tightens. “Or yesterday. Or the day before.”

Vesemir’s eyebrows climb higher. “Oh.”

Geralt glances around the garage. Even over the clattering of tools and the whirl of saws, ears can hone in on conversation. Geralt sighs, turning on his heel and shuffling back to the office. He doesn’t need to look back over his shoulder to know that Vesemir is following him.

The noise muffles as soon as Vesemir shuts the door behind him. Roach stretches out of bed, padding over to the elder with her tail swishing behind her.

Geralt wanders over to his desk. It used to be Vesemir’s. He spent his early years barely able to peer over the top of it, or perched on its edge tolling away at homework while Vesemir worked to keep the garage afloat. It feels strange slumping into a chair that used to belong to his father – but Vesemir happily pulls up a spare chair to sit at the other side of the desk.

Finished adorning Roach’s head with pats, he sits back with a huff. “So,” he sets crossed arms on the table, “what’s got you so bothered?”

Geralt picks at the hem of his shirt. Words sit perched on the tip of his tongue. He takes a steadying breath. “Jaskier and I haven’t spoken much over the last few days,” he manages to get out, clamping down on the urge to just turn back to his computer and shut down. He chews the inside of his cheek. “He’s busy, I know. He mentioned something about a music deal a few weeks ago that was being talked about.”

Vesemir hums. He lets the words settle between them, making sure that he can’t lure any more out of the other man. “Have you _spoken_ to him? A call, a visit to his house?” Vesemir tilts his head. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Geralt pauses. “At your house,” he answers, “for the end of summer dinner.”

Vesemir makes a noise in the back of his throat. “That was weeks ago, boy. We’re nearing the middle of autumn now.”

“I was busy,” Geralt grunts, turning to his computer screen.

Vesemir doesn’t bristle. He’s weathered too many of Geralt’s moods to back away from them. “Aye, and he might be busy too. Your whole life changed overnight as soon as Yennefer told you that she was pregnant. Things have changed. You have a baby to look after now.”

Silence stretches out between them; broken only by the clattering of keys on the keyboard as Geralt mocks up an email. It’s to no-one in particular, but it’s to keep his eyes focused on anything but Vesemir’s parental scowling face.

Vesemir sighs. “Call over to his house, see what’s up with him.”

“Ciri is staying with me tonight.”

“Then call him.” The elder stares at the side of his face. Heat scalds Geralt’s skin from the intensity. “You’re really bothered by it. I can see it all over you. Talk to me.”

Geralt’s fingers hover over the keyboard. A moment stretches out. “I don’t want to lose him,” the words tremble out of him before he can snap his jaw shut. Once the first bit trickles out, a flood follows. “If he’s busy, that’s fine. I get it. I want to see him do well; he’s worked so hard for this. But he feels miles away and I can’t reach him anymore.”

By the time it’s all out, he’s winded. His lungs try to pull air in, but each breath is so fleeting and stabs underneath his ribs. His fingers tremble and his blood begins to freeze over—

“Geralt.”

He’s being turned around. Warmth envelops his hands and holds on. A gently lulling voice slips through the fog.

“Geralt. Breathe with me.”

Pain spears through his chest, stabbing into the side and stealing his breath. Not that there was any there to begin with.

Warmth blooms through the side of his neck. He focuses his eyes just enough to see Vesemir kneeling in front of him, keeping a steadying hand against the column of Geralt’s neck. It’s something he’s done before. Vesemir knows how to help weather Geralt’s storms. He meets Vesemir’s eyes; a steady assurance staring back at him.

_It’s okay._

_Breathe_.

The first trembling breath is the worst. It hurts his lungs and they barely fill at all before the breath stutters out.

So he tries again, and again. Until his lungs can get used to being stretched out with air, and the numbness in his fingers wane.

“That’s it,” Vesemir assures, thumbing over Geralt’s knuckles. They’ve turned white with how tightly he holds on to the other man. The pressure around his hands, around his fingers, doesn’t seem to bother Vesemir at all. “You’re okay.”

Coming down from the peak is always the worst; tumbling down with no real hold on anything. He’s distantly aware of Roach’s wet nose prodding and nudging at the side of his hand. When he can take the first cleared breath, he blinks against the harsh lights of the voice. “I’m okay,” he rasps, slipping one hand out of Vesemir’s. It trembles and quivers, but he’s able to pluck up his phone from the table. He checks the time. He was only gone for three minutes. A short attack, but the first one he’s had in months.

Vesemir backs away from him. He clicks his tongue. “You haven’t had one of them in a while,” he mutters.

Geralt clears his throat. “Guess it was going to come back at some point.”

“It shouldn’t have,” Vesemir replies. He regards Geralt for a moment. “Go and see Jaskier. Talk to him. I hate seeing you unhappy.”

“I _am_ happy,” he says. Ciri makes him happy. His job and his brothers and his overprotective-as-shit father makes him happy. And Jaskier—

Geralt loves him.

Vesemir’s lips thin. “Go see him,” he says firmly, standing up from the ground. “Don’t make me drive you over there.”

* * *

He gets there fine by himself. The trees that line the street have already turned a brilliant crimson and gold and their lower branches lay bare. Some rainclouds have moved off in the last hour or so, leaving the cobbles washed and wet and the air chilled and smelling metallic, but at least it’s dry now.

Geralt fidgets with his keys as he takes the short flight of steps up to the front door of the townhouse. The wrought iron bannister is ordained with lights and red maple leaves. Between each railing, he spots baby pumpkins.

He doesn’t even reach up for the bell before the door opens. Essi stands inside, clad in her usual worn jeans, bared foot, and oversized flannel shirt. Surprise blinks on her face as she sees him. “Oh, Geralt!” she steps back, letting him in. “Jaskier is upstairs in his room. How’s Ciri.”

He offers her a small smile. “She’s good. Sleeping through the nights and playing during the days.”

Essi preens. “Great.” She hovers by the foot of the stairs, eyeing the landing. “Does Jask know that you’re coming over?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I just thought to drop by,” he says. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Essi snorts. “You haven’t seen him in a few days,” she just about manages not to scoff and roll her eyes. “Can’t keep you two away from each other.” Essi pads back into the kitchen, a warming smell of bread floating out into the hallway to greet him. Jaskier’s house always smells good, whether it’s saturated in perfume or candles or mists, or just cooking and baking, he lets himself breathe in the scents. It’s familiar. An almost home. He spent so much time here with Jaskier and the others, he might as well have been living here.

The door to Jaskier’s room is closed. He usually has it cracked open. It’s only ever closed if Geralt is over and, well, Jaskier has _some_ decency.

He raps his knuckles lightly on the wooden frame, and he waits.

His throat quivers and tries to tighten, but he swallows. He’s here now. Might as well do as Vesemir says and speak to the man.

His ears twitch at the sound of footsteps padding over the floorboards. The door creaks open.

Geralt blinks when Jaskier peers out from the small crack. His hair is messier than usual, sticking out in all directions, including swooping lowly over his eyes. They’re red and tired, Geralt notices. And shadows are trying to sink into the hollows of his face.

He looks as tired and worn-out as Geralt feels.

Jaskier blinks as he sees Geralt. “Oh, hi,” he says, running his fingers through his hair in some attempt to tame it. When the door opens fully, Geralt peers inside. He frowns slightly at the sight of a messed and rumpled bed and sheets of paper scattered throughout the room. Jaskier’s room has always been some sort of organised chaos, but this is different.

“Thought I’d pop by and see how you’re doing,” Geralt says slowly, letting his gaze fall back on the other man.

A light flush settles over Jaskier’s cheeks. “Uh, thanks.” He steps away from the door, letting Geralt step inside. There’s a slight pause in Jaskier’s words – one he’s quick to fill. “Just working,” he says through a strained laugh.

Geralt hums. Some crumbled balls of paper lay scattered around the feet of Jaskier’s bed and around his desk, while half of his bedsheets is covered with papers scrawled in scribbles. “Song-writing?” Geralt asks, glancing over his shoulder. Jaskier hovers by the door, fidgeting with his hands and fingers.

Jaskier nods. “Yeah. I’m going to be releasing some new music soon. Just putting the finishing touches together for a few of them.”

Geralt’s brow lifts. “That’s great,” he says. “Did the producer ask for it?”

The flush darkens. “Uh, yeah,” Jaskier mumbles, shuffling over to his desk.

Jaskier doesn’t quite settle. It’s his own room, in his own house, and Geralt seems to be the calmer of the two. On the outside, at least; because there’s a maelstrom rattling his mind with vicious anxious worries.

“I turned down the producer.”

The words are short and come out in one breath. It takes him a moment to pull them apart and realise what Jaskier just said. “What?” Geralt frowns. “Why?”

Jaskier’s fidgeting gets worse. He picks up sheets of paper only to put them down again. He spends at least a minute rearranging pens scattered and piled in a heap. “He didn’t seem like a good fit, that’s all.”

Geralt perches at the foot of Jaskier’s bed. It doesn’t make sense. He’s been talking to that producer for weeks. Every phone call has the man pulled away from dinners or bed because his phone just won’t stop shaking with texts and calls from him.

How is it only know that Jaskier realises that the producer doesn’t suit?

Something blooms and churns his stomach. “He doesn’t work for Valdo, does he? Or did he say or do anything that made you feel uncomfortable?” Because he knows what certain people in higher standings are like.

Jaskier blanches. “What? No! No, he just started planning some stuff that I didn’t feel like doing.”

Geralt cocks his head. “Like what?”

Jaskier doesn’t look at him. “Moving to Cintra.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Moving to Cintra?”

A shuddering breath shakes out of the other man. “He talked about building my image and platform. And, yeah, cool, I can’t get bigger if I don’t get myself out there...” he trails off.

Cintra...isn’t that far away. But it isn’t close. It’s one of the harder boroughs to get into; bursting with packed high-rise buildings housing corporate offices and apartments worth four-times the value of Geralt’s whole apartment complex. It smells of money; the pavement in the streets might as well be embossed with gems and precious metals. But like the other well-to-do cities and boroughs, there’s another darker side to it.

Jaskier pads over to him, taking a seat at the foot of the bed too. “It’s alright” he pushes out a tight laugh. “There will be other chances. In places that are near you.”

At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Near me?”

Jaskier hums. “If I lived in Cintra, I’d never get to see you.” The singer’s hands wring on his lap, fingers fidgeting with his rings. “I hardly get to see you now, with everything going on.”

Geralt lifts his chin, his eyes suddenly scrutinising. Something awful and horrid tightens around his chest and stomach. “What do you mean?” The words do nothing but bumble out between numb lips. “I know things are busy now that Ciri’s here, but I’d always make time for you. You know that.”

Jaskier winces. “I _know_.” He looks over to the other side of the room, to his desk laden with papers and notebooks and odd items of clothing draped over his chair. “I just,” he gnaws his lip, “if I moved away, I’d never get to see you. And I don’t think I could handle that.”

The words sit among them for a moment. The house, although big, can let sound echo through it. One of the girls has turned on music downstairs. Footsteps thud on the staircase and landing outside. All the while, the storm in Geralt’s head lashes and seizes his body.

“You turned down the producer because of me?”

Jaskier doesn’t reply for a moment. “No. Well, yes.”

Geralt stands. He’s distantly aware of familiar fingers reaching out and trying to grasp at the sleeve of his hoodie. “Wait,” Jaskier breathes, “I like things the way they are.”

Geralt’s arm falls to his side. “You’re settling.” His throat trembles as words struggle to climb up and slip out of his mouth. Half of his brain is on fire; roaring and clenching his stomach while setting his blood ablaze, while the other attempts to soothe with rational thought. “I don’t want to hold you back. If you want to go, go.”

Something flashes over Jaskier’s face; confusion, maybe. But a wash of other things too. “I don’t want to go, Geralt.” His sigh is sharp. “I...I didn’t want you to know about it because I knew you’d freak out and try and push me away.”

Geralt’s frown sets into his brow. “You weren’t even going to tell me?” Jaskier’s room had never felt this small before. The walls creep closer. “Is that why you went silent? I thought that you didn’t even want to talk to me, or that you were getting tired-”

“- _Getting tired_? Geralt, I would never-”

Geralt’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it. “I thought that I had done something, Jask. You want to stay here with things the way they are, and you didn’t even text me for two weeks.”

“I did!”

“One worded replies every five hours.”

There’s a scurry of movement on the landing outside.

Jaskier buries his face into his hands, blowing out a sharp sigh. “Gods alive, Geralt,” he mumbles, pulling his hands away with a groan, “I’m sorry. I was trying to sort my own life out without it falling to shit. Turning down producers causes wildfires.”

Geralt’s phone buzzes again. The trembling feeling in his pocket almost startles him. With a huff, he fishes it out of his pocket and blinks at Yenn’s name scrawled across the screen. His thumb hovers.

He swipes _DECLINE_.

“I don’t want to hold you back,” Geralt says. “It seems that you can go plenty of places without me. I-I have a _child_ , Jask. I’m tied down. I don’t want you tethered to me too.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “I’m not _tethered_ to you, you idiot. I love you; and Ciri, and your family. If I wanted to go, I would have gone-”

The phone buzzes again.

“For fuck sake, Geralt, answers it.”

He swipes to answer and brings the phone to his ear faster than he can blink. “Listen, this isn’t a good time—”

“—Geralt,” Yenn’s strained voice cuts through him like a blade. “Geralt, please, I need you. It’s Ciri. We’re on our way to Aedirn General. Can you get there now, _please_?”

He’s winded. His throat nearly shuts completely as his blood freezes in his veins. His mouth hangs open as he looks to Jaskier – a small frown creasing the man’s brow.

“Geralt?”

“Yeah,” he manages to get out, “yeah, I’m on my way, Yenn.”

He can’t get out of Jaskier’s house fast enough. Sprinting out into the hallway and almost vaulting over the stairs is a blur. He’s distantly aware of passing a puzzled Pris and Shani in the hall, cut-off goodbyes coming from them as he rushes past.

 _Ciri_. That’s all that trembles through his mind. _What’s wrong with her? She seemed fine last night. She ate when she had to eat and slept in between. She seemed fine dropping her off at Yenn’s this morning, and what time is it now? Midday? What changed? Is she hurt? Sick? Aedirn General is miles away from Redania—_

When he jumps into his car, he stuffs the keys into the ignition and puts shaking hands on to the wheel when someone slips into the passenger seat.

Jaskier.

He quietly does up his seatbelt and sets about pulling up a digital map from his house to the hospital.

Geralt swallows. “Jask?”

“Here,” he puts his phone on the console between them, a clear – _and short_ – route showing them where to go. “If you skip the highway, and take the back-roads out, it’s actually quicker.”

Geralt swallows. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel as his knuckles turn white. The car pulls away from the house with a screech, a flock of sparrows jolt out of a nearby tree.

* * *

“Are you Dad?”

It’s a question that stops Jaskier going any further; despite Geralt assuring the nurse over the children’s ward that Jaskier and him are together. She gives him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but only the parents are allowed in for the time being.”

Jaskier’s hand squeezes his arm. “Go,” he urges, almost pushing Geralt forward. “I’ll be in the waiting room.

Geralt follows the nurse. She gives him a talk on what happened – Ciri was carted in by ambulance, suffering from an infection which name he’ll never be able to pronounce correctly. She’s okay now, she assures him about five separate times – or, at least, at the end of every sentence.

The children’s ward brings forward a flood of memories. Walls painted in nauseatingly bright colours with animals and cartoon princesses scrawled across in every direction, trying to make a visit to the ward as fun as possible, and not at all traumatising. He winces at crying breaking out of one room. Nurses in pastel coloured scrubs drift by.

Lambert got sick a lot as a baby. Vesemir probably spent more time in a hospital than in his own home during Lambert’s early years. If it was contagious or chronic, chances were that Lambert had caught it or dealt with it at some point; colds and flues that shook through his chest, infections so numerous that they all wondered did anything in his body actual work at all, pneumonia that almost took him from their family forever. Even now, with all of the experience he has with wards and nurses and doctors, he still watches Lambert flinch every time he has to go back for a check-up.

His heart is either going to stop completely or beat so hard and fast that it will crack out of his ribcage and splatter on the ground. The nurse leads him to a private room, shielded from prying eyes and the noises of the ward.

The nurse stays outside, parting him with a promise that if they need anything at all, she’s a call away. Geralt’s _thanks_ struggles through a lump in his throat. When he steps inside the room, any hope of hanging on to a breath leaves him as it catches. Ciri lies out among white hospital sheets on a bed way too big for her tiny frame. She’s surrounded by machines and IV stands. One of her hands, not marred with a cannula and a plastic hospital bracelet, is caught in Yenn’s.

Geralt swallows. She looks haunted; shadows darkening the hollows of her face and dried tears staining her cheeks. When she spots him, a sob wracks through him. He’s over by her side in seconds. He’s never heard a sound like that leave her, ever.

“It was so scary,” she gasps into his shoulder, clinging on to him for dear life. He hugs her tightly, rocking her slightly from side to side. Over her shoulder, he looks down at Ciri peacefully sleeping. Her skin is flushed red and she’s been stripped down to her diaper. Yenn hiccups. “She was fine. I just left her down on her playmat for a second to get her bottle, and when I came back, she was fitting. I didn’t know—” Her words trail off as another sob tightens her throat.

Geralt hushes her. “Febrile convulsions,” he says softly, knowing that that’s probably what the paramedics and doctors here told her. “Lam used to get them when he had a fever as a baby. They’re not nice to watch, I know. I’m sorry that you were alone for that.”

A rasping gurgle draws them apart. Ciri blearily looks up at them, fidgeting her heavy, line-ridden arms. A soft frown creases her entire face as she lets out an unhappy sound, just verging on the start of a cry. “Princess,” Yennefer sniffs, dropping back down to the baby’s bedside. She lets Ciri hold on to her finger; her entire hand just making it around the digit. Her grip is still strong and fine, Geralt notices, as she shakes Yenn’s hand side to side.

He drops down beside the woman, a chair already pulled up beside her. Ciri coos when she sees the both of them. Her eyes are still not entirely focused and her eyelids droop as she drifts back off to sleep.

Geralt brushes the back of his finger over the arch of her foot; something so tiny and able to fit in the palm of his hand. The room is quiet and nice. It’s painted in muted pastels, a colour to each wall. It softens the view of IV stands and machines and monitors to both sides of the baby’s bed. She looks tiny in comparison to it; probably meant for a bigger child. But she probably couldn’t be put into a crib anymore. Still, the head of the bed is propped up slightly, letting her sit up a bit and look around the room. In the corners, Geralt notices, are hoards of soft plush animals.

A nurse lightly knocks on the portal of the opened door, stepping in with a clipboard perched in one arm. “Cirilla Rivia?”

Geralt clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s her.”

The nurse, probably old enough to be his mother, smiles assumingly at both of them. “I have Cirilla’s blood test results back and she’s all clear. Her white cell count is a wee bit high, but that’s probably because of the infection.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “An infection?”

“Aye, a wee chest infection.” The nurse reaches behind the clipboard and sets a small white bottle down on the foot of the bed. “Once she’s finished with her IV antibiotics, we’ll check on her again, but you should be all good to go. She’ll need two spoons of this a day, until the bottle is empty. You can check back in with your family doctor once it’s finished.”

Yennefer’s breath shakes out as she sighs. “Thank you. That’s good news.”

The nurse beams. “The wee lamb is a strong one,” she says cheerfully, as any children’s ward nurse would. She reminds Geralt of all the nurses that used to play with him and Eskel while Vesemir sat with Lambert, listening intently as they talked with doctors about his illnesses. But Kaedwen’s hospital is nothing like this. This hospital is just as polished as the city is. And the fact that Ciri has her own room, he dreads to think of the cost.

He can worry about it later. Now, he just about manages to swallow around a stubborn lump trying to lodge in his throat.

Yenn plays with Ciri’s tiny hand, idly humming some song under her breath. Geralt glances to the other side of the bed. The IV bag isn’t huge, but they’ll be here for a while waiting for it to empty. He leans back and almost slouches into the hard leather of the chair. Yenn casts a look at him from the corner of her eye. “Where were you?” she murmurs, mindful of the cub dozing. “You sounded...frazzled.”

 _Not half like you were_ , he thinks, but gratefully doesn’t say. Geralt sighs. “I was at Jaskier’s house. He’s here, in the waiting room.”

Yennefer arches a brow. “Oh? That’s...that’s good of him.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s fingers fidget on his thigh. He wants to go and get the man. But thoughts swirl around in his head. _Why did he come?_

Some ghost of a smile haunts Yennefer’s lips. “Everything alright? You look a bit lost.”

“We...” He swallows. “We had a fight. I think.”

Yennefer snorts. “You _think_? You either did or you didn’t.”

He shouldn’t talk about it now. Not now. Not with Yennefer. He focuses on the steady and quick rise and fall of Ciri’s chest. On the rhythmic beep of monitors telling him that his daughter is safe and healthy and okay. He can feel Yennefer’s gaze burning into the side of his face; a scrutinising look that always manages to dig in and unravel him, no matter how much he tries to ignore and fight against it. “He was talking to a producer about making more music,” he starts, and once the first words trickle out, the flood erupts. “If he wanted to get bigger, he needed to move to Cintra. And he turned the offer down because...”

Yenn’s brow lifts. _Because?_

Geralt sighs. “Because he didn’t want to move to a place where he wouldn’t be able to see me.”

Yennefer regards him for a moment. “And...you had a ‘maybe’ fight over...what, exactly?”

“I don’t want to hold him back, Yenn.” Gods above, he is sick of having this damn conversation. “I...I have a kid and my own baggage. I don’t want him wasting his life with my shit and—why are you laughing?”

She tried her best to hide it, but eventually her shoulders jostled and that was the giveaway. Yenn scoffs. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Geralt blinks.

Yennefer turns back to Ciri, still contently dozing and hold on to her mum’s finger, blissfully unaware of everything that this day has turned into. “If he really wanted you to go, do you not think that he would have gone already? It sounds like a great offer. Cintra is where people make their names. But he turned it down. Why do you think he did that?”

He’s honestly afraid to answer.

But she presses on, Geralt’s hypothetical answer be damned. “He loves you, Geralt. I’ve seen him around you, and how he looks at you when you look the other way. I don’t doubt for a second that if the Cintra move topped those feelings, he would have left already. But he’s here.”

Geralt swallows. It’s doing nothing to quieten and settle the maelstrom ravaging his mind and threatening to engulf him. But Yenn’s sure look eases the worst of the tension keeping his shoulders tight and drawn into himself. When Ciri wakes up again, fussing and whimpering at the abrupt change in scenery to home and the smell of _hospital_ , he fishes his phone out of his pocket. He blinks at a text popping up on the screen.

_Jaskier ; How is she? Is everything okay?_

Geralt’s thumb hovers for a second.

 **Geralt : She has a chest infection. Needs to finish an IV bag before she can come home**.

As soon as the message sends, he’s quick to tap out another one.

**Geralt : We’ll be here for a while. Do you want to stay?**

Jaskier’s reply is instant.

_Jaskier : Of course I do. Take your time_

_Jaskier : Give the tyke a kiss for me. I’m going to raid the hospital canteen. Do you want anything?_

**Geralt : You’re not allowed in...?**

_Jaskier ; Yeah, fuck that. _

* * *

The deepest, crackling coughs croak out of Ciri. Jaskier winces, peering up at the rear-view mirror to look in the backseat. Yennefer sits beside Ciri’s car seat, keeping a steady hand on it while she dabs away from spit from the baby’s chin. “Poor princess,” Jaskier clicks his tongue, wincing again at the baby coughing like an eighty-year-old chain smoker.

A course of antibiotics and rest. Geralt drives by Yennefer’s apartment first, dropping her and Ciri off with a mumbled promise that he’s a phone call away if she needs him. He gets out of the car to help Yenn with her bags and the car seat, but she shoves him away saying that she can handle it. He leans down to press a kiss to his daughter’s head – or what he can reach of it, anyway, with the girl being as bundled in blankets as she is. When Geralt gets back into the car, and it’s him and Jaskier and a silence that not even the soft hum of the radio can crack through, his tongue turns heavy.

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt turns to look at the other man. He fidgets with the hems of his sleeves. Chewing his lip, Jaskier continues. “I’m sorry that I shut you out and brushed you aside. It wasn’t a fair thing to do.”

Geralt swallows. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I’m...I’m sorry for trying to push you away. I’m afraid that you’ll waste your life saddled with me and my shit when...when you’ve been the best thing to happen to me.”

The flood bursts through the dam.

“If you didn’t help me get better all those months ago, I wouldn’t have Ciri. Everything good that has happened in my life stemmed from you being in it.”

Jaskier blinks. His eyes are glossy and glazed, and he sniffs and turns away. Geralt manages to catch a single tear streaming down Jaskier’s chest, just before the man brushes it away with a wet gasp. “Yeah, I,” his voice rasps. Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue, sitting heavily and clumsy in his mouth. Instead, Jaskier breathes for a second, looking out on to the street. He’s painfully aware that they’re in Aedirn, parked outside Yennefer’s apartment building, cocooned in their own world in the car while suited businesspeople drift by outside.

Jaskier sets his jaw. He leans over the console to press a firm, yet tentative, kiss to Geralt’s lips. At the spark of heat that sears his skin, he realises that it’s the first kiss he’s had from the man in...gods only knows how long. He reaches out and cups his cheek, angling his head to deepen the kiss and let lips part and tongues meet.

A worn-out sound rings up through Jaskier’s throat. “Geralt,” he mumbles against the man’s lips. He pulls away just enough to set his forehead against Geralt’s. He takes a few steadying breaths. “I...” Anything he has to say dies on the tip of his tongue.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Geralt’s lip. He nudges his nose against the other man’s. “It’s alright,” he rumbles. “We’re alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, originally, I had Geralt and Jaskier fully breaking up for a bit, and Geralt relapsing into his Big Sad Mood. But you know what, I'm sad. And I didn't want to make myself sad by ruining everything I worked on for the past 20 chapters 😂
> 
> So a bit of angsty angst, but do remember that I really held back. This...could have been so much worse.


	22. Chapter 22

It’s a stubborn infection that’s hanging on to her with everything it has. Ciri’s face scrunches up and she protests every spoon of medicine they have to trick her into taking – something Yennefer has mastered over the past couple of days. But Yennefer isn’t here, and he tries not to cry every time Ciri gags as he has to force her to take some medicine. It’s awful, and he hates it, but he hates her being sick even more.

Geralt winces every time he hears her chest rattle. She still eats everything put in front of her, taking her bottle just as easily and regularly as she’s always done; and she sleeps for her naps during the day and sleeps right through the night, except for feeds. Apart from a jarring cough, she’s fine. She’s Ciri. No one would suspect she’s even sick. But her chest still shakes and crackles, and Geralt hates it.

It doesn’t seem to bother her that much. Sprawled underneath her playmat, she bats at overhanging bouncing toys. Even the coughs that rattle through her body, almost bending her in half with the force of them, they don’t seem to bother her at all as she coos and plays.

But it’s hard to sleep; for him, anyway. Exhaustion drags him under most nights, but sleep is fleeting. He’s lost count of how many times he’s woken up during the night, barely finding his bearings, before peering into Ciri’s crib pushed up beside his bed. And she’ll always be sleeping; peacefully sprawled out among soft blankets and plush animal toys, her limbs jerking with dreams. When he’s sure that she’s safe, or after he’s put her back down after a feed and she drifts back off to sleep, something heavy and insistent washes over him too and drags him under.

Jaskier helps when he can. He’s practically moved into the apartment; a bag of his stuff has taken up residence beside his room’s door, and some of his clothes have even found their way into Geralt’s wardrobe. When he’s exhausted and half-dozing on the couch, Jaskier will be the one to catch his elbow and lead him to bed. Sleep comes easier when a warm, familiar body is wrapped snugly around him.

Tonight is no different.

When he surfaces again, gods only know what time it is, and how often he’s crawled back awake just to check on the girl. Sleep is slow to let go of him, keeping his eyes hooded and his muscles heavy.

Soft murmurings and little grumbled whines catch his ear. Blearily lifting his head off of his pillow, Geralt makes out the soft shape of Jaskier padding around the end of the room. In his arms, nestled against his shoulder and not looking one bit happy to be awake, is Ciri. Her face is red and ruddy with drying tears staining her cheeks. She keeps a closed fist by her mouth – a soothing thing she likes to do sometimes.

He’s about to get up when Jaskier starts softly humming under his breath. His hand gentles Ciri’s back as she coughs again – something crackly and tight. “Oh, you’re alright little cub,” he soothes, going back to humming to ease her back to sleep.

Geralt only catches his attention by shifting on to his back, rustling the sheets and putting an arm behind his head. Jaskier’s eyes soften as they land on him. “She was fussing,” he whispers, still swaying her from side to side. “I didn’t want her to wake you, now that you’re sleeping.”

Jaskier has always been good with her. Even in the first tentative days when he held himself as tight as a wound-up spring, unsure of how to even hold a baby, let alone feed and care for it, he tried. As Ciri became less and less fragile, when they started strolling away from the sketchy first days of an infant being out in the world, and when Jaskier finally started to realise that he could and would _never_ harm her, he started to relax.

And she loves him. She’s fascinated by his guitar – or the sound it makes, at least. There have been times where her crying and wailing has stopped dead in its tracks just because Jaskier strums a few strings, and she’ll frown perplexed at him.

Ciri grumbles again, trying to press her face into Jaskier’s shoulder where it’s warm and the scent of him is familiar. “Look, princess,” he whispers, turning her to look at the bed, “daddy is awake.”

Once blearily blue eyes settle on him, all of the grumpiness wrinkling her face smoothes away. Jaskier pads back over to the bed, carefully slipping in while making sure Ciri is secure. She’s rarely ever lying down with them in bed; sometimes after a particularly rough night, it’s just to make sure that she goes back to sleep surrounded and protected. But as soon as Jaskier settles back into his nest of pillows and blankets, she reaches a chubby arm out towards her dad. “Alright, alright,” Jaskier clicks his tongue, “have some patience, princess.”

All of her whimpers and snuffles stop completely when he settles against Geralt. He peers down at the girl, her tiny hand reaching out to grab a fistful of fabric and hold on to it. Warmth blooms through his side as Jaskier shuffles over to him. “What’s her temperature?” Geralt mumbles, mindful of the rest of the house. His brothers are well-known to sleep through most natural disasters, but a baby crying? That’s another thing entirely.

Jaskier sighs. “Normal,” he answers, pillowing his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “And she took her medicine and had a full bottle. She’s just fussy.”

Geralt turns, dusting a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “Thank you.”

Jaskier barely catches himself from rolling his eyes. “You’ll run yourself into the ground if you keep worrying,” he says, reaching out to brush some wisps of blonde hair back against Ciri’s head. It sticks out at all angles these days, even when there’s enough to make small ponytails, it can’t quite be managed properly.

Geralt hums. “She’s just so little.” Ciri’s asleep. She’s heavy in his arms, peacefully dozing as she slips further and further down. Her chest still doesn’t sound quite right, but it’s better than what it was. Even though the infection is hanging on to her with everything it has, digging its claws in and trying to hide away, they’re starting to flush it out.

A peace falls over the room. Kaedwen is one of the quieter districts, especially at night. Even though Jaskier lives in a suburban, family-friendly part of Redania, muffled noise still manages to drift up the street from parties in neighbouring houses. Kaedwen is as silent as a graveyard. With Eskel and Lambert still sleeping, he can only assume it’s still in between being late at night and early in the morning. Until he can smell the first wisps of grilling bacon, he’s good to keep sleeping.

Geralt grunts as he sits up, just enough to lean over to Ciri’s crib beside him and set the girl down. Her brow wrinkles in a frown at losing her father’s scent and warmth, but surrounded with plush toys and blankets, she thankfully doesn’t wake.

As soon as he lies back down, Jaskier settles a hand on his chest. His heart thumps steadily underneath it. A rhythmic Jaskier used to use to ease himself into sleep months ago, when his muscles were tight and his mind deafeningly loud.

He curls an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, his fingers drifting up and down the man’s back and the ridges of his spine. Jaskier sighs into Geralt’s chest. He gets heavier and slouches more into the other man, before his words come out heavy and slurred with sleep. “You’re a great dad,” he mumbles. The words hang in the air between them just as sleep comes to take Jaskier away.

Geralt sits with them for a while. The tightness in his chest ebbs away as the assurance comes to take roost.

* * *

“Geralt!”

Lambert is loud. He’s always been loud. As a child, he could rattle the floorboards and the supports of the house by shouting and yelling. His volume somehow managed to grow as he got older. As his name shakes through the house, Geralt sits bolt upright at his desk. Jaskier’s fingers still on his guitar’s strings, a sour note croaking because of the alarm.

Geralt frowns. Lambert is loud, and he can also be a prick. His mouth falls open, about to shout _what_ down the hall, when Lambert’s voice thunders again.

“Geralt, come quick! It’s Ciri!”

Hardwood floor and sock-clad feet, and a rush to get out of Geralt’s room and into the hallway, mean shoulders knocked against doorframes and almost-crashes into walls as they both take the corners quick. Geralt’s heart almost clogs his throat as he bursts out into the living room, Jaskier flush along his back. “What?” Geralt gasps, his eyes scanning around for the girl. He left her in her play-gym, happy that Eskel would watch her as he worked on something in the living room.

But all he can see is Lambert, standing in the middle of the living room, with Ciri hoisted up in his arms and Eskel just behind his shoulder, letting her tiny hand grasp and hold on to a finger.

And she...looks fine. Geralt’s breath struggles to catch up with him as he stalks over, his eyes running up and down and all around the girl. She isn’t crying. She actually turns to look at him as he draws near, a closed fist smushed into her mouth as she chews on it.

Lambert bounces her in his arms. “The little gremlin smiled!” he says with a hint of awe in his voice. His voice is...odd. Nothing like the usual Lambert he grew up with. Nothing like the Lambert who lives in this apartment with them. The man standing in front of Geralt now almost _radiates_ with giddiness and awe.

Geralt blinks. His heart hammering in his chest almost skips a beat. “What?” he rasps, putting a hand over his chest to settle the anxiety starting to claw at him.

Lambert lifts his chin, his smile turning from pride to smug. “She smiled!” he says firmly. “At _me_! Not even Scarface over here. Guess I’m the new favourite uncle now, huh gremlin?”

“Bullshit,” Jaskier mutters under his breath, peering over Geralt’s shoulder to look at the girl.

“What about it, kiddo?” Lambert bounces the girl, luring light cooing noises out of her. “A smile for your favourite uncle Lambert?”

Jaskier balks, his brows lifted and staying exactly where they are with shock. “Are you serious?”

“It’s true,” Eskel says sombrely. “I saw it.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow. Ciri makes noises. He could have a dictionary by now with the noises she makes and what they mean. But she’s never smiled. She’s cried and her face has soured and wrinkled, but he’s never seen a smile. And if fucking _Lambert_ is the first person she’s smiled at—

And there it is.

A small smile that lifts the corner of her lip. When Lambert bounces her again, shifting his voice into something high and cartoonish and _ridiculous_ , the smile grows until it rounds her cheeks and squints her eyes. With one free arm, Lambert punches the air. “Aha!” he crows. “In your fucking faces!”

“Unbelievable,” Jaskier mumbles, reaching out to brush the back of his finger over Ciri’s face. She giggles and coos, but nestles her head back against Lambert’s shoulder. For a man who professed that he hated having the girl here, announcing that babies were gross and cesspools of illness and just _smelled bad_ , he’s sure lapping up the attention. Just as Eskel starts to walk away, defeated, Lambert calls out, “someone grab their phones, I want a picture of this!”

If he wasn’t holding Geralt’s daughter, honestly, he would have punched him. “Don’t make me panic again, prick,” Geralt growls, reaching out for Ciri. Ciri’s smile only grows when she spots her dad about to take her. So there’s that, he supposes. She’s a happy baby, he can tell. She only cries when something bothers her; and nothing really does.

Cuddled against Geralt, Ciri smiles against his chest, nabbing a handful of his shirt to pull at and hold on to. Jaskier lightly prods her side. “Why no smile for me, huh? The guy who stayed up with you last night when you felt awful?”

“She puked on my favourite shirt,” Lambert calls from the couch, still smirking. “This is my repayment.”

“He’s going to be insufferable,” Jaskier laments, “even more than he already is.”

Geralt grunts. An arm slips around Jaskier’s waist as he leads them all back to his room. “We’ll deal with it. I know where he keeps his good shirts.”

* * *

Apparently, Ciri hasn’t stopped smiling. Yennefer blinks just as Geralt drops the baby off to her apartment. Yennefer hoists her up into her arms, marvelling at how pure and gorgeous a baby’s – her baby’s – smile is. Yenn arches an eyebrow. “And she smiled at Lambert first?”

Geralt nods solemnly.

“Fuck sake,” Yennefer grumbles, turning back to her daughter. “Do you know what kind of hell you’ve caused, huh? I’ll get you a toy if you puke on him again. Deal?”

Lambert has learned his lesson. Post-fed Ciri is to be avoided at all cost. Geralt got the hang of it within a few days, knowing now to have a towel draped over his shoulder just in case of a disaster. Too many black tees have been lost because of negligence.

With Ciri settled back at Yenn’s apartment, and the woman assuring him that _no_ , she doesn’t want anything done around the place and that _yes,_ she can look after herself, Geralt leaves. Jaskier waits in the car, idly scrolling through his phone just as Geralt slips back into the driver’s seat. His music lulls out of the speakers – an agreement between the two of them that whoever is in the passenger’s seat is the resident DJ. And Geralt likes Jaskier’s music. It’s calming and always at a nice volume, just humming through the car. Nothing like Eskel, who likes to blast the eardrums out of every borough they drive through.

Jaskier hums. “What about this place?” he passes his phone over. Pulled up on the screen is a website for a pizza and pasta place near Oxenfurt.

Geralt hums. “Looks good,” he says, starting the car and driving off.

Talking with Jaskier has always been easy. Conversation naturally flows between the two of them; even if Jaskier is often the one to lead and fill it. He talks about the college, how he spent a chunk of his life doing the bare-minimum at classes, but still managing to get an honours degree. Jaskier is just naturally smart, especially when it comes to the seven liberal arts. He knows everything there is to know about the _trivium_ and the _quadrivium_. Geralt wouldn’t have even dreamt of landing in Oxenfurt’s courtyards. The college was always leagues out of reach; and Vesemir couldn’t afford to put three boys, all around the same age, through college at once. So they learned practical skills. Jaskier might know grammar and rhetoric and music and astronomy, but he can’t make head or tail of how to change a car’s tire.

Oxenfurt looks like a scaled-down version of Redania. Redbrick buildings and polished, yet worn, cobblestones, and perfectly trimmed trees lining the streets. Geralt parks three streets away from the restaurant, happy to let Jaskier catch him by the hand and lead him through the streets, recounting every little thing he can remember about his time at college.

Not that it was that long ago. Jaskier is a couple of years younger than him; but still young enough to look like he just stumbled out of college. Though, Jaskier insists he graduated early.

They stroll down the main street, passing buildings that have pointed arches and vaults to their ceilings. Geralt looks around while Jaskier rambles on about some professor he had.

When they reach the restaurant, a nice chill nips at the air. The sun still struggles to hang on to the sky, with autumn digging its claws in and refusing to budge. Winter will be a harsh one, according to Vesemir. _We had a lovely summer; it’s only fair that we’ll have a horrid winter_. Until the rain starts flooding the streets and the winds turn gnawing and biting, he’ll keep going outside with Jaskier, happy to let him lead on.

The restaurant isn’t packed, but it isn’t quiet either. The waitress leads them to a table beside the floor to ceiling windows, looking out on to the streets. People stroll past – visitors, like himself, and students with arms laden with books and bags half-hanging on to their shoulders as they scurry towards the college’s arches.

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Gods, I remember when that was me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’re in your mid-twenties, Jask,” he rumbles, offering a small smile to the waitress when she returns with their drinks. “Stop talking like you’re decrepit.”

Jaskier fidgets with the glass of his drink, running his fingers over the bottom of it and tapping them on the side. It’s to keep his hands busy; a nervous tick that he’s never managed to shake off. “Hmm. I suppose you got the hair to prove it...”

Geralt nudges the man’s shin under the table. “ _Dickhead_ ,” he grumbles under his breath, mindful of the types of accents floating around him. Redania has always been known for the college, and the college attracts the wealthiest students, and their families, from all over the Continent.

A loose, smirking smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. Before their food arrives, the man’s hand drifts over the table and nabs Geralt’s. Their fingers interlink and lock as they idly chat about anything and everything. Geralt tries not to bring up Ciri. When Ciri is away, he tries to move on with his own life. But she’s such a substantial part of it – she very well could be the thing holding it all together.

But he does tell Jaskier about Yennefer being pissed at Ciri smiling at Lambert, at a maybe-plan concocting about having the girl throw up on his best shirts. Jaskier’s smile turns lecherous. “I’m all for said plan,” Jaskier chuckles. “Yenn really is a mastermind.”

Their food comes and it’s as wonderful as he expected it to be. The pasta is house-made and the sauces are fresh with tomatoes and herbs, and the cheese is soft and creamy. A clap of thunder rumbles outside. Just outside on the street, the first drops of rain start to fall.

By the time they finish their food and drinks, and stand up to get the bill, the rain blankets outside. Geralt winces at the walk back to the car. A light laugh bubbles out of Jaskier. “Guess we’ll just have to run,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for his wallet. A silent battle between the two of them – who will pay for their food and dates and who will silently grumble about it in the car ride home.

Geralt holds up his coat, forming some sort of shield over both of them as they jog back to the car. Jaskier’s laugh rattles through him as they veer out of the way of other people trying to find shelter underneath shop awnings and their doorframes. When they get back to the car, Geralt’s clothes are soaked and the ends of his hair stick together. Jaskier doesn’t fare much better.

He barely has settled into the driver’s seat before Jaskier leans over and catches him in a kiss. A sound bubbles out of the back of his throat, but he reaches out and settles a palm against Jaskier’s cheek. The man tilts his head, groaning lightly into the kiss.

Geralt parts them, smiling at the protesting sound slipping out of Jaskier’s lips. “Let’s go home,” he rumbles, gentling his thumb over the man’s cheekbone. “You can kiss me however you like there.”

Jaskier sighs. “Fine,” he grumbles, but catches one last kiss for the drive home, letting warmth bloom through him and a shiver rattle up his spine.

* * *

**Geralt : Can I ask you for a favour?**

_Yenn : Of course, within reason..._

**Geralt : I know. **

**Geralt : Could you look after Ciri for a week? Jaskier and I have our anniversary in a few weeks and I want to go somewhere with him. For a vacation. He deserves it after dealing with my shit. **

_Yenn : I think I’ll need a dentist visit that text. You’re so sweet <3_

_Yenn : Sure, that’s no problem. Mousesack and Triss are around, I won’t be alone_

_Yenn : Enjoy yourselves ;) _

**Geralt : Don’t wink-emoji at me ever again...**

Jaskier mumbles something tired and muffled into his bare shoulder. Skin pressed against skin, warmth settles into his bones as Jaskier dozes against his side. His limbs are still numbed and tingling from a post-orgasm haze hovering over him. Jaskier...is a lot. Slow and soft lips pulling all sorts of sounds from him, lighting his skin on fire wherever he can place them. Jaskier’s mouth should be considered a weapon; and he knows how to use it.

His phone buzzes again.

_Yenn : Just texted Mousesack to see if he can help, and he’s good to go. Just tell me what week you’re going and we’ll be good. _

Geralt types out a quick reply.

**Geralt : Once things are booked, I’ll let you know. Thank you, Yenn. **

_Yenn : Go get some anniversary sex. It's on me. ;)_

**Geralt : Yenn.**

_Yenn : ;)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yenn is the President of the Geraskier Shipping Board, no questions. 
> 
> Some soft and smutty times ahead for our boys...


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie to you; this is a Beast of a chapter. Once I started writing it I just couldn't stop. 
> 
> So here it is. Fair warning that most of this is "Soft Bois go to a Coastal Town" and "the Author is getting more comfortable with writing Sex", so...you know. If that's your cup of tea then strap in.

Keeping surprises from Jaskier has always been difficult. The man has some innate ability to read people and know exactly what they’re thinking. So Geralt tries not to lounge on vacation plans too much; instead, spending as much time as he can doting on Ciri, knowing that he’ll be gone for a whole week.

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “You’re up to something,” he says, setting folded arms on the breakfast bar.

Geralt pauses for a second, only spurred back into action by Ciri’s whimpers as he tries to feed her another spoonful of pureed carrots. “No. What do you mean?” And he internally winces at how rushed and tight the words are. _Not smooth **at all** , Rivia._

A laugh huffs out of Jaskier. “You’re an open book.” He cocks his head. “So, what are you up to?”

“Nothing.” Geralt catches some of the carrots and dribble that starts to drip down Ciri’s chin. If he can just focus on his daughter starting to get the hang of navigating solid foods, he can’t feel Jaskier’s gaze burning into the side of his face.

“Alright,” Jaskier grunts, going back to his book, “keep your secrets.”

* * *

Winter could be horrific in some boroughs. Kaedwen freezes over and shuts down, mostly from lashing winds and thick snow tumbling down from the nearby mountains. He considers going south, where the weather won’t be as harsh. But with winter beginning to unfurl and many other people starting to flock down with the changing winds, prices of cabins and hotels skyrocket.

He can still afford it. Vesemir taught them all of his pups to be frugal and cautious with their money, and if possible, hide and hoard it until they absolutely need it. And while Geralt isn’t the wealthiest person in the borough, he manages to book somewhere in Pont Vanis; somewhere Jaskier has been before, and he has faint memories of the singer telling him fond memories about it.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he types out a quick message to Yennefer.

**Geralt : Vacation booked on these dates. Are you still good to look after Ciri?**

_Yenn : Yes, Geralt. Mousesack and Triss are on board to help_

_Yenn : We’ll be fine. Go have fun x_

**Geralt : Thank you. **

* * *

Jaskier arches an eyebrow at the scene in front of him. Shani and Pris are holed up in their rooms, and Essi is out on a date with her newest girlfriend – Geralt can’t keep up with the woman’s hurricane of a love life, so prefers to let Essi’s business stay Essi’s business.

With free run of the kitchen, and some minor help from Eskel through video chat, Geralt lies out a spread of roast chicken with a hum of spice, vegetables glazed in honey, and a small basket of bread rolls. A bottle of red wine sits uncorked amongst it all.

Jaskier blinks. “What’s all this?”

Geralt sets the last of the cutlery down. “Dinner,” he replies. He’ll blame the light flush warming his cheeks on the heat of the house. Jaskier’s house is always so _warm_. “For you and me.”

Jaskier stands stunned by the door for a moment, taking in the scene. When Geralt wanders too close to him, Jaskier reaches out to catch him and draw him in. “You’re sweet,” Jaskier coos, leaning in for a long and languid kiss.

Geralt indulges him for a moment, hands settling on the man’s hips. But he breaks them apart. “Dinner,” he says sternly, ignoring the pout that wrinkles Jaskier’s face.

The housemates, thankfully, stay upstairs. Geralt and Jaskier divide the food and wine among themselves and just chat. New customers to the garage and the ones giving Geralt hassle over things that aren’t worth hassling over; Jaskier explaining his new song set for the _Cardinal_ bar. It’s calm and relaxes and they can both lounge and breathe.

Midway through their meal, Jaskier finally notices the small envelope in the middle of the table, acting as a coaster to the bottle of wine. He lifts his chin. “What’s that?”

Geralt sets his cutlery down, gesturing to the envelope. “A present,” he says slowly, tasting the words on his mouth. He’s never been _overly_ affectionate with people in the past. He certainly isn’t sentimental. Years spent on and off with Yenn were nothing but a maelstrom, and when they went out to celebrate things, it was often because of work or a birthday – never an anniversary.

So when Jaskier slowly reaches for the envelope, eyeing him curiously as he peels it open and fishes out a card inside, Geralt’s stomach drops. His fingers fidget on the table. “A present, for our anniversary,” he manages to mumble out. “I know it’s not for a few more days, but I wanted to surprise you with something.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply as he runs his eyes over the card.

Geralt hasn’t always been that great with words either. And he isn’t going to deny that he had to get some help in formulating what it was that he wanted to say within the card. So he can only buy Eskel all the drinks he wants for a solid month in thanks.

When Jaskier reaches the end, he takes a moment to steady his breath. “What...?” His lips are numb as they try and bumble out words. “Geralt, I...This is too much, I don’t even know-”

Geralt sets his mind to pushing out everything he can muster together in his mind. “We’ve gone through a lot. It’s been mostly you putting up with all of my shit, and then the stuff with Marx and the producer, I...I just thought that maybe you’d like to get away from it all for a week.”

For a terrifying moment, silence settles over them. Jaskier looks at the card, not to read it, but just to look at it. He slowly sets it aside, and stands up from the table.

Geralt has barely enough time to think of all the things he’s done wrong before he has a lapful of Jaskier, and the man lures him into a long and languid kiss. Geralt moans into it, letting his hands settle on Jaskier’s hips.

Their kiss only ends when the need for air grows too strong. Jaskier parts them, setting their foreheads together and brushing their noses. “You’re sweet,” he purrs, letting his arms loop over Geralt’s broad shoulders. “And kind. Thank you.”

Geralt hums, lifting his chin. A silent request. A brilliant smile sprawls across Jaskier’s lips before he pecks another kiss on to Geralt’s lips. “You deserve every good thing in the world,” Geralt says, the words rumbling out of him. Something almost catches in the back of his throat. This...is strange. Cracking open his chest and letting Jaskier see what’s inside of it. The man has had his hands cradling Geralt’s heart for a year; treating it like the most fragile of glassworks.

A thud from upstairs makes him realise that they aren’t alone. If they were, Jaskier would have already been perched up on a countertop and naked by now.

Well, he’s sure he can at least make it to the man’s room. Scooping his hands underneath Jaskier’s thighs, helping him wrap his legs around his waist, Geralt makes off with him. Jaskier buries a laugh into the column of his neck.

* * *

It takes almost an hour for them to leave. Jaskier throws the last of their bags into the back of the car, eyeing Geralt as he checks his phone again.

 **Geralt : If anything happens, give me a call**.

_Yennefer : Geralt Rivia, may all of the gods help me, GO AWAY_

_Yennefer : Mousesack says not to come back until those balls are empty_

_Yennefer : I’m charging you compensation money for making my ears hear that_

Jaskier sidles up next to him. “They’ll be fine,” he hums, slipping his arms around him in a firm hug. He presses himself flush against Geralt’s side, but looks away from his phone. He knows what’s been plaguing the other man’s mind, and he understands.

A mantra has been rolling around inside Geralt’s skull. _This week is for Jaskier_. And even though he can’t seem to pull his mind away from Ciri for too long, he does turn to kiss his boyfriend. Jaskier hums against his lips. When they pull away, Geralt nudges their noses together. “Let’s go,” he rumbles.

The car ride is nothing unusual; Jaskier offering some conversation, and then contently dozing once they’ve reached the highway’s entrance. When he wakes back up, it’s to hook his phone into the car’s speakers.

One of Jaskier’s playlists hums through the car. The man himself reclines back against his seat, idly lolling his head from looking out of the window to Geralt’s side. Geralt taps his fingers against the steering wheel. Jaskier always has music playing within his house. Over the months of visiting the other man and staying over, his indie music choices have burrowed into Geralt’s ear and made a home there.

Pont Vanis isn’t terribly far from Kaedwen. With highways that pass through most of the boroughs, it’s made getting around a lot easier. He remembers being in Vesemir’s car when he was barely able to see above the dashboard, winding through backstreets and regional roads. It took forever to get anywhere. And for all the grumbling Vesemir did about the construction work engulfing the whole Continent, it stopped once he realised he could just shave time out of his cross-Continent journeys – especially when Lambert needed to get from one hospital appointment to another.

When they slip off of the motorway, almost two hours later, the landscape begins to change. Redania is red brick and autumnal leaves, the smell of brewed coffee slipping out of one too many cafes lining the streets, and worn cobbles. Kaedwen is greyscaled and industrial, an ever-present heavy cloud sitting over the towering apartment blocks.

Jaskier watches the scenery change, in quiet awe of how each borough stretches out towards the horizon. All knitted together by roads and highways, how big is the Continent, really? Maybe they can go on a road trip one day, driving throughout each borough. They’ll have to wait of course. Ciri comes first. When she’s bigger, and can stand being away from home, maybe they’ll bring her with them. And Yennefer, if she wants to. Though he can’t see her parting with her work for too long.

Pont Vanis is a sea-side town, made up of mostly quaint brick townhouses looking out on to the sea. Fishing ships bob by the harbour, tethered on to beams while their crew haul catches on to land. The people don’t seem as hardened as those in the Skellige Isles. The landscape isn’t as weathered either. The sea gently laps up against the harbour, barely disturbing those walking around on the streets.

Just outside the main city is a small gathering of cabins. A getaway for many people deeper inland who just want to escape the mundane-ness of it all. While Jaskier recognises the town and the smell of the ocean, and the slight lilt to the people’s accents, he doesn’t recognise the complex. Maybe it’s new. The cabins are big enough, lined up in rows and made of freshly varnished lacquered wood. Geralt parks in front of their one.

“How much was this?” Jaskier asks, looking around at the site. A few families bundle into their own cabins further down. They’re bigger, obviously built for accommodating larger groups. Their cabin is big, but it’ll just be for the two of them.

Geralt doesn’t look at him for a moment, instead wanting to take his keys out of the ignition and grab his jacket from the backseat. “I could afford it,” he rumbles, pressing an assuring kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. He tries to stop a smile curling his lip at the sight of the man’s face scrunching up. “You deserve everything, anyway. It’s no hardship on me.”

Geralt gets their bags. It’s easy to see their own personalities shine through in the amount of bags brought on a week’s long trip – Jaskier who over-packs, and has possibly brought his entire house with him, and Geralt who under-packs, just brining what he needs and nothing else.

The inside of the cabin is everything he hoped it would be; warm and well-furnished with plush couches and chairs, a hardy hearth in the middle of the living room. Further into the cabin, he finds their room, a large bed with fresh linens, blankets, and furs lining the bottom. Even with winter starting to creep in, they’ll be warm and snug inside here at least. Jaskier finds him after doing a small bit of exploring. “There’s a small fire pit out the back,” he says as he comes up behind the other man, pressing his chest flush to Geralt’s back as his arms wind around him. “I’m expecting great things, Rivia.”

Geralt chuckles. “Don’t saddle me with expectations.”

Jaskier hums, resting his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. “Too late. I want to be waited on hand and foot. I might never return home if things go well.”

* * *

“I used to come here when I was little. Funny to think that nothing has changed.”

Jaskier coils his arms around Geralt’s, in some effort to _stay warm_ , but Geralt knows it’s just only to be close to him. The weather isn’t that bad – nothing like how awful Kaedwen’s can be. Any rain thankfully either stays out at sea, or skirts around the town and ventures further inland. Apart from some sea breezes, it’s fine. Still, Jaskier insisted on bundling up and keeping close to the other man, just in case he fell to hypothermia. Unlikely, Geralt thinks, as Jaskier is currently plastered to his side.

Pont Vanis seems to be stuck in time. Geralt recognises a few stores that might have been open at one point further inland, but have had to close with the changing times. But they’re still doing quite well in the town. Food seems to be the most inviting thing for visitors, alongside stores with knitted sweaters and hats. Fishing boats keep to themselves out in the harbour, with the occasional resident wandering out along the boards to pick up bags of freshly caught fish.

It’s quaint and homely and seems to be a world away from anything else.

Jaskier’s arms tighten around his. “There should be a cafe down here,” he says, leading them off of the main street and down a smaller one. “Mum always liked it.”

He doesn’t talk much about his parents. Geralt can probably count on one hand the number of times Jaskier has brought them up. He knows their names, just because Geralt’s brothers did their own digging in their own time. Alfred and Maura Pankratz seem to own all of Lettenhove, with the number of buildings, both residential and commercial, they have in their hands. They have gold flowing through their veins, and Jaskier left all of it.

Vesemir is as much as a father-like presence in Jaskier’s life to fill whatever void was left behind – if there even was one. He doesn’t mourn his parents. Their absence in his life hardly scratches him at all.

But he does see afterimages of his time here with his family. Geralt is here with him now, and he looks a lot happier than what he was. The coffee shop is hidden away from the main streets, curled up into a nook and sheltered from the worst of the wind. Jaskier sets about ordering for both of them. “You paid for this whole holiday. Let me get food and drink,” he bats Geralt’s hand away from his jacket pocket. Settling the main with a firm, _don’t-argue-with-me_ stare, Jaskier fishes out coins.

Time just slips away. The rest of the Continent seems leagues away from them, and he isn’t that bothered by it at all. He knows that Ciri is out there, in Aedirn, probably driving her mum insane. And he can’t stop his mind wandering, wondering how she is and if she’s okay. But it’s not as bad as he thought it was going to be. For chunks of the day, he finds himself not actually thinking about his daughter at all – and no plume of anxiety and hatred unfurls in his gut.

They wander through Pont Vanis until their toes grow cold and numb and their noses red. Most of their time is spent hand-in-hand; if not to stay together than just to stay warm. Even with the sun out, struggling to stay shining through thick clouds rolling in from the sea, the winds are chilly and biting.

By the time they wander back to the cabins, the sun is starting to slip down beyond the horizon.

A lit hearth and plush, warm bed wait for them in the cabin. As soon as they step inside, warmth burrows in through their layers of clothes and into their bones. Jaskier sets their coats and scarves by the door, hanging them up alongside their shoes.

They managed to stop into a small grocery store to pick up some food. The restaurants around the cabin site and within the town itself are nice, but Geralt would prefer to keep the other man here for as long as possible. He gets a pot of soup simmering on the hob, and carves up a few hearty slices of bread. His ears twitch at the sound of Jaskier shuffling around in the cabin; wandering over to stoke the fire and to hook his phone into the speakers throughout the living room. Geralt’s lips twitch at the familiar lull of Jaskier’s playlists swaying out into the kitchen.

Jaskier soon follows.

“Smells good,” he hums, curling his arms around Geralt and pressing himself flush against the man’s back. He hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder, peering down at the board. Bread, the beginnings of a small salad of chard and soft cheese. Jaskier burrows his face into the hollow of Geralt’s neck.

It’s warm and familiar and something settles deep inside of Geralt’s chest, carving out a home for itself just beside his heart. He leans back against the other man, humming contently when the arms around him tighten. The ghost of a smile is dusting the skin of his neck. “Will you be helping me get dinner ready or just will you just stand there?”

Some sort of pitiful noise escapes Jaskier’s throat when he sets his chin back on Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m providing an excellent source of heat. My job is of the utmost importance.” His words are mumbled and slow, but no less convincing.

Geralt huffs a small laugh as he reaches for the soup. “Well, it’s going to make grabbing some plates and bowls difficult.”

Jaskier sighs. “Fine,” he pouts, slipping away from Geralt’s back.

And he hates to admit with, but without Jaskier there, he has to clamp down on shivering as a thrill of cool air brushes him.

Jaskier at least helps in bringing the bowls and plates over to a small dining table. The back of the cabin looks out on to a small paved area with a fire pit and chairs. Further out, there’s a hardy wooden fence standing in front of a dense forest. Geralt faintly remembers walking trails curling through the forest and up a nearby hill range.

Soup and bread and salad laid out on the table, Geralt portions it out between the two of them. Jaskier clears his throat. “Any word from Yenn?” he asks. “About Ciri?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m sure they’re fine. She would have texted me if anything happened.”

Jaskier hums. The soup is a collection of winter vegetables, blended into something like cream. The bread has a good crust running around the edge of it. All of it warms his stomach. The winds pick up a bit outside, rattling the treetops nearby. With the food and the hearth and each other, Geralt can’t imagine they’ll have much trouble with keeping warm.

Jaskier idly tears up a chunk of bread, fidgeting with it for a moment. “I know it’s hard for you, being away from Ciri. Thank you for this. You didn’t have to.”

Before he can open his mouth, to rehash the argument that he _did_ have to because of everything the other man has had to put up with, Jaskier jumps back in – the chunk of bread held out as if it were a weapon. “Do _not_ start that bullshit that I _put up_ with you and your shit, please. I didn’t. I love you, and you were going through some pretty rough things that you needed help with. I did what any normal, decent person would do.”

Geralt hums. If he keeps his eyes on the bowl in front of him, then he doesn’t have to meet the intense blue staring back at him.

Jaskier sighs. “Thank you,” he murmurs, letting his free hand crawl across the small table and takes Geralt’s. A content sort of noise slips out of his throat when Geralt turns his hand and lets their fingers interlink and lock. “This means a lot to me.”

Geralt squeezes their hands. “You’re welcome,” he hums.

The winds howl through the trees and rush through the site. They’re not as strong as they would be in Kaedwen. Geralt has weathered stronger storms at home. But it’s enough to catch his attention when they’re finished eating and are washing and putting the dishes away. Jaskier cranes his neck to look out the window. It’s pretty dark, with the faint white moonlight trying it’s best to shine down.

A whole week is at their disposal. A week hopefully spent doing nothing but eating and sleeping and just being together. Jaskier catches his hand and leads them to their room. A large bed sits in the middle, laden with fresh sheets and woollen, knitted blankets. The orange, warm glow of the room helps keep the chill at bay. Their bags still sit by the bedroom door, half-open and with some tees and shoes spilling out on to the floor from where they rooted through them trying to find things to go out.

Jaskier’s hand squeezes his as he drags Geralt around and in front of him. The backs of his legs press against the end of the bed. It’s plush and has just enough give for him to imagine how comfortable and soft it is. His breath catches in his chest when Jaskier’s hands start to wander. “Thank you,” he repeats, lowering his voice and lashes and setting Geralt’s blood alight. Hands that should rightfully be classified as weapons palm over Geralt’s chest. Clad in only a tee, Jaskier hums at the familiar feeling of muscle underneath.

He isn’t going to attempt to try and remember the last time they explored each other. Having a baby around just meant sleeping whenever they could, let alone trying to get at each other. And on days and nights where Ciri would be with Yennefer, Geralt would just be too tired to do anything.

But now, Jaskier has his attention rapt.

The man steps away from him. The same flush of cold replaces him when Jaskier moves a bit too far away. He chuckles at the small whine that slips out of Geralt’s throat. “Sit down,” he waves at the foot of the bed. He pads over to his bag, rifling through it until he pulls out lube and a condom. Geralt’s throat bobs. "Jask..."

Jaskier arches an eyebrow. For a moment, his eyes soften. 

Geralt swallows. "Can we, uh...Can we not use a condom?" his voice is deathly quiet. The words are almost lost completely to the soft crackle of the hearth outside. Geralt lifts his chin. "We've been together for a while, and um, my last test was negative, and I-"

Jaskier watches him intently for a moment. Those familiar blue eyes, there's a storm churning behind them. "That's fine. That's _more_ than fine. Whatever you want, darling."

He’s powerless to not to anything Jaskier ever asks of him. The man’s fingers and lips do things to him that has sense thrown out the window and his soul leaving his body. So Geralt sits and settles his hands on to his thighs. His fingers fidget for a moment, not quite knowing what to do with themselves.

Jaskier all but saunters back over, tossing the bottle of lube on to the bed beside Geralt. Jaskier ducks his head, catching one of Geralt’s hands, and straddling the man’s thighs. He puts hands on his hips, gently squeezing them. _Leave them there unless I say otherwise_.

And Geralt can’t stop himself from squeezing at Jaskier’s skin. The arch of his hips and the soft swell of skin and muscle. It’s all too familiar to him.

Jaskier catches the hem of his shirt, softly tugging at it. “Off,” he mumbles, leaning down first to peck a short, chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips. When the man moves too far away for it to continue, a growl rumbles out of Geralt’s throat. A smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lips. “ _Off_.”

Just how quickly he can wrangle his tee off of himself, he can’t say. He can’t say where it lands either as he chucks it somewhere into the room. With the way he wants this week to go, it was sort of pointless bringing clothes at all. His hands settle back on to Jaskier’s waist. His skin is warm and soft and his scent coats the roof of Geralt’s mouth.

His breath catches in his throat when Jaskier’s hands start to wander. His chest first, fingers splayed out over Geralt’s pecs. Gooseflesh bubbles wherever Jaskier’s hands go. The man’s lip curls in a smile. His tongue can be equally as damning as his fingers; but Geralt has found out that sometimes Jaskier doesn’t need to speak at all to get him bent to his will. “I do hope you know I’m not letting you leave this bed for the entirety of this trip,” Jaskier mumbles, letting one hand settle over Geralt’s heart. It’s hammering inside of his chest, ready to burst out of his ribcage and into Jaskier’s hand.

Hooded eyes and quirked lips; Jaskier could kill him. Geralt swallows. “I know,” he rasps. “I had the same plan.”

Jaskier lifts an eyebrow. “Oh? Good to know we’re on the same page then.”

Jaskier stands from Geralt’s lap – the other man doing a valiant job of trying to swallow the noise clawing up his throat at the loss of the familiar weight on top of him. Jaskier makes quick work of his jeans and briefs, eyeing a silent order at Geralt to do the same. Clothes fly into unknown corners of the room and Geralt just amount manages not to cry when Jaskier clambers back on to his lap. The bottle of lube appears in his hand as he coats two fingers with it.

Geralt’s breath all but leaves him as Jaskier kneels up a bit, reaching behind himself. Jaskier’s free hand settles by his cheek. “Look at me,” he rumbles. The small hitch in his breath is the only clue Geralt gets that he’s dipped a tip of a finger inside of himself. And he would give everything right now to flip the other man over and watch, because for all the devilment Jaskier can cause to Geralt with his hands, he’s equally as deadly employing those hands on his own body.

“Always so good to me,” Jaskier mumbles. The words tumble out from numbed lips, swollen slightly with how much he’s been biting them. He dips down and lures a kiss out of Geralt, one that’s chaste and not at all enough and only has him growling when Jaskier pulls away and sets their foreheads together. His lips are _just there_. Any time he lifts his chin, desperate for them, Jaskier pulls just out of reach. The man’s break shakes as one finger presumably becomes two. “Will you be good now? Give me everything I want?”

“Yes,” Geralt moans. Of course he will. Jaskier could ask the moon and stars of him and he would march towards the highest mountain and pluck each and every light out of the sky just because Jaskier _asked_.

The answer only has that smirk growing into something filthy. “My good boy,” he breathes, hitching slightly as he brushes that spot inside of him. The thighs he has braces around the outside of Geralt’s legs tighten. “I don’t want to be walking right by the time we leave.”

 _Of course. Whatever you say, Jask_.

Jaskier seems to grow irritated with teetering on the edge first. When his fingers leave him, he bites down on a small whine that struggles up his throat. He pushes Geralt’s chest, a silent order to lie back down on the bed. Framed by plush bed linens and furs, the sensations are almost too much and not enough at the same time. A maelstrom is churning behind golden eyes. Jaskier’s clean hand brushes along Geralt’s cheek, dipping down towards his throat. “I love you,” he says firmly, as if trying to cement the words right into Geralt’s brain.

He knows the other man loves him. He says it often enough, and even how he acts and touches Geralt, he _knows._ But it still floors him any time he looks Geralt right in the eye and says it.

Geralt swallows. “I love you too,” he whispers, his voice threatening to shake if he speaks any louder.

All he can do in retaliation against the other man is push his hips up. At the first slide of his hard and leaking cock into the crease of Jaskier’s ass, the man moans. He lowers himself until their chests are flushed against each other, bracing a forearm against the bedding and right by Geralt’s head.

Geralt’s hands stay dutifully on Jaskier’s waist. They drift down to his hips, feeling the arch of bone and the soft swell of muscle and skin beneath. His grip only tightens at the first plume of pleasure. He guides Jaskier to where he needs to be – if the other man insists on him keeping his hands there, well then he’s just going to have to use them.

Hips grinding together and a shared, hot breath mingling between the two of them. Jaskier’s hand tightens in the bedsheets. “Back up a bit,” he breathes, nodding further up the bed. Their legs hang off of the foot of it. It wasn’t the easiest position to maintain, but it would have worked. But the glint in Jaskier’s eyes just tells him that he might as well just get as comfy as he can, because he won’t be moving any time soon.

Settling down into the plush bedding, Jaskier pins Geralt underneath him. He reaches behind him, catching Geralt’s cock in a wet hand and pumping it. Geralt’s throat bobs just as Jaskier lifts his hips just enough to position his cock right where he needs it and—

The sound that crawls out of his throat is nothing recognisable. It could be a moan or some attempt at Jaskier’s name, but the warm tightness engulfing him is all he can focus on, and it’s too much.

Jaskier sits up, letting his head tilt back as he sinks down on Geralt’s cock. “ _Gods_ , that feels good,” he sighs, his eyes closed as he lets the feeling wash and lap over him. When he finally bottoms out, his ass plush against Geralt’s thighs – quivering from the amount of effort he’s using to _not_ fuck up into Jaskier – he lets his eyes open again.

And if he wasn’t holding on to the reins with a white-knuckled grip, he might have just lost it there are then. A fucked-out expression already warms Jaskier’s face, swelling his lips and hooding his eyes.

Jaskier grips him as he swivels his hips, grinding them together in a way he knows can drive Geralt just to the peak of the edge, but stills to drag him back from it again. If this is the way his week is going to go, then at least he can die happy.

Geralt’s hands tighten on Jaskier’s hips. Setting his head back into the plush furs beneath him, he helps guide the other man. He’s tight and hot and quivering around him, and it takes everything in Geralt not to fuck up into him. Because Jaskier didn’t say that he could; though the permission seems to be sitting perched on the tip of the man’s tongue.

Jaskier rolls his hips and lets his hands drift on his own body, dimpling his thighs in gooseflesh as he dusts his touch over them. They migrate up, spanning over his stomach and chest. Jaskier has always had a nice body; he knows exactly how to use it, and Geralt has always liked looking at it. And perched on top of him, on full display, Geralt can’t look anywhere else.

One hand goes to Geralt’s chest, a light hold gently keeping him on the mattress. “Does it feel good? Being inside me?”

Some sort of moan slips out of Geralt’s lips. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, tightening his grip on Jaskier’s hips.

Jaskier’s smile only grows. “You feel good too, darling. Fill me up so good,” he lulls as he rolls his hips. He’s enjoying this, the sadist. Jaskier lets his hips grind and his hands wander as if they had all the time in the world. And in the context of the next week, they do, Geralt supposes. He really thinks that he won’t see much of the town at all because Jaskier will keep him here – not that he minds, of course. He’ll happily be at Jaskier’s beck and call.

But now, with a coil that’s tightening in his core and threatening to snap, all he wants to do his catch the man and roll on top of him, and fuck into him like Jaskier loves—

Something must flash across his face. Or else Jaskier has become a lot more forgiving of a sadist. He settles his hips flush on to Geralt’s, letting the man’s cock reach deep inside him and settle against it. It hitches Jaskier’s breath as he leans down, setting an arm back against the mattress and beside Geralt’s head. He lets his other hand find the man’s chest, settling right over a hammering heart. “Fuck me, baby,” Jaskier breathes, “make me feel it.”

Geralt can’t move quick enough. Jaskier settled on top of him is one of his delights. He likes the weight of the other man, and the caged-in feeling he gets when all he can see when he looks up is _Jaskier_. So he brings up one leg, setting his foot into the mattress, and fucking up and into the man on top of him.

Jaskier sets his mouth to the ridge of Geralt’s jaw, hot gasps against skin as he burrows his face into the hollow of the man’s neck. “That’s it.” The words are almost lost against Geralt’s skin. Jaskier goes tight around him, quivering walls clamping around him. With the breaths and words gasped into his neck, Geralt knows that the other man is close. He is too. _Just there_ , and somehow not enough. Jaskier’s cock leaks between them, red and ruddy and brushing against Geralt’s abdomen.

Jaskier’s fingers find his hair. They curl around strands and tug and hold on as he grinds his hips, desperately meeting each thrust with one of his own. Geralt is bigger than two of Jaskier’s fingers, and the sting was – is, it still trembles up his back – wonderful. Jaskier’s hold on his hair tightens as he nears the edge. “ _Darling_ ,” he groans, mustering the energy to sit back up, just a slight, and look into Geralt’s eyes. They’re both as equally gone as the other. Now it’s just as case of who can hurl the other one over first. Jaskier tightens around him, grinding down and helping Geralt’s cock batter that spot inside of him. Every thrust has pleasure rattling up and through him. He’s numb and gone and just wants more—

Geralt turns them. Jaskier’s back has barely hit the mattress before Geralt has his thighs caught, legs curled around his hips, and he’s diving further into the wet tight heat underneath him. Jaskier’s moans cut off as his head falls back, eyes wide and cast up to the rafters above them. “Make me come, baby,” he whines, letting his arms fan out above him. His fingers try to catch the sheets and have him hold on to something, but nothing will do. “I’m so close, please Geralt-”

Geralt sets his hands into the mattress and looms poised over the man. His hips snap forward, deep harsh thrusts that fuck cut-off noises out of Jaskier’s core. His fingers tangle into the bedsheets, his knuckles turning white as he tightens around Geralt. “ _Please_ , come with me, baby. Come inside of me, _right now_.”

Geralt drives one last thrust into the body beneath him before he stills, a choked-off groan wrangled out of him as he floods Jaskier. Distantly, he can feel wetness between them. Jaskier’s legs tighten around him, his foot settled into the small of his back to keep him inside and as close as possible. The wet, hot fluttering of his walls around Geralt does nothing to stop the shudders rattling through him.

He’s slow to try and wiggle his way from Jaskier. The sweat coating both of them starts to cool and nip. And the streaks of release painting both of their abdomens aren’t the most pleasant thing in the world. But just as he pushes up from Jaskier, hovering above the man, he watches raptly as Jaskier thumbs some of his release into his mouth.

Geralt’s throat bobs. “Have mercy,” he grunts.

Jaskier’s legs fall from his hips. Some small coy smile curls along his lip. “I told you that you weren’t going to be leaving this bed all week.”

“A man of your word,” Geralt hums, cleaning whatever he can and dropping his shirt back on to the ground. He isn’t on his back long before Jaskier cuddles against his side, setting his head on to Geralt’s chest and breathing in the familiar scent of him. The rest of the cabin is quiet and cold, and all he needs is here now. Why would he ever leave?

* * *

Sleep is slow to let him go. When he claws his way back awake, his mouth is dry and tacky and the smothering scent of sex is still sitting in the air. Geralt blearily rubs at his eyes, rolling his head to look out the nearest window. It’s still dark out – but with it being winter, it might stay dark until eight in the morning. His phone sits on the nightstand, too far away to reach with a certain man currently pinning him down to the bed. Jaskier’s limbs have him trapped; his arms curled around his waist and middle while a leg is thrown over his own.

He would usually stay. Jaskier is warm, and the thought of braving the cool air just outside of their bed doesn’t sit right with him at all. But his bladder has other ideas. Geralt sighs, gently trying to unlatch Jaskier’s arm from him.

At the first faint movement, a frown etches into Jaskier brow and he tries to burrow further into Geralt’s side. When Geralt manages to detach the man’s arm from him, a pitiful sort of whine leaves Jaskier. “Where ‘re you goin’?” he mumbles. His eyes are still closed as he blindly bats out for Geralt again.

“Bathroom,” Geralt says. He grunts when Jaskier manages to slip an arm back around Geralt and bring him back on to the bed. It’s nice and soft and warm, and it has Jaskier in it, but—

“Well, unless you have a hidden piss kink that I don’t know about,” he trails off just as Jaskier suddenly pushes at his shoulder. He bites down on a small laugh.

Without the hearth and the absurd amount of blankets and Jaskier’s body, the cabin is bloody freezing. Grabbing a pair of boxers, a plain black tee, and his phone, he makes the perilously cold journey to the ensuite bathroom. The lights are a bit much as he switches them on. Sleep still stings his eyes as he squints and tries to get used to the harsh light. He has just enough wherewithal to do what he needs to do, quietly, without waking the man next door. Just as he flushes and starts washing his hands, his phone blinks at him from the countertop.

A message logged.

He quickly dries his hands and unlocks his phone.

_Yennefer: [image attached]_

_Yennefer: Hope the trip is going well. At least one of us is having fun. The Grand and Royal Princess Ciri doesn’t want to go to sleep, it seems_

Geralt eyes the timestamp. It was only sent an hour ago. Knowing Ciri as well as he does, if she hasn’t slept so far, then she’s probably still awake. And keeping Yenn up with her. His thumb hovers over the call button.

He probably shouldn’t. What if Yenn finally managed to get Ciri to sleep? Then again, he can’t remember a time where her phone wasn’t on vibrate. He hasn’t checked on them since getting to Pont Vanis.

 _Fuck it_.

He sits on the edge of the bath as the phone rings. With every long thrill, his chest begins to tighten. They’re probably fine. He should hang up. What if he’s intruding on something?—

“Hey,” Yenn’s voice comes through.

A long sigh escapes Geralt. “Hey,” he rumbles. His fingers fidget with the smooth edge of the bath, tapping out some sort of rhythm. “I just got your text, sorry.”

A light sort of laugh escapes Yenn. “It’s 5:30 in the morning. What are you doing up?”

“What are _you_ doing up?” Geralt challenges.

Yenn snorts. “Your daughter is refusing to go to sleep.”

And it doesn’t escape him how any time Ciri is in one of her moods, she suddenly becomes _his_ daughter. Still, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lip at the thought of her creating chaos. “Is she crying?” Because he strains his ears and can’t hear anything but the low hum of Yenn’s TV in the background.

“No,” Yenn clicks her tongue. “She just...doesn’t want to sleep. Mousesack was over today. We’ve tried everything. Swaddling, feeding, rocking, and dimming pretty much all of the lights in the apartment. He hit his hip and toes on every corner of furniture in this flat because of it. And she’s still staring at me, wide awake. We’re down to just watching a few reruns of _Wallander_.”

Geralt chuckles. “I think that could put anyone to sleep.” It’s a low blow, considering how much of a crush Yennefer still has on the main actor in it. When they were together, and he would find himself at her place, most of their in-house date nights were spent trudging through crime documentaries and detective shows. She didn’t appreciate him butting in every so often with how it’s technically impossible for forensic results to come back as fast as they do; but he liked riling her up all the same.

“Hmm. I don’t think she’s very interested in it,” Yenn sighs forlornly. “Shame. I thought we could bond over how well Kenneth Branagh has aged...”

“He _is_ dreamy,” Geralt agrees lightly. He glances at the door of the bathroom. He’s sure Jaskier is probably still asleep, or keeping himself curled up in their bed until he comes back. Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. “I have a few recordings of Jaskier singing on my phone. She can sometimes fall asleep to those.”

Yennefer makes a sound. “Really?”

He hums. “Jaskier isn’t always that pleased with it. It says a lot about him if his audience falls asleep only two and a half songs into his new set.”

Yennefer laughs, a light and airy thing. “Sure. Send me a few and I’ll try it.”

He can imagine Ciri curled up in her arms, swaddled with her favourite brindle brown blanket, chewing on her fist. The world is slowly starting to take form for her. With her vision finally beginning to focus, she has taken to just staring at people whenever they come into view. She’s already so inquisitive about everything. He loathes the day where she starts walking. He can already imagine her toddling and racing around, happy to poke her head into anything and everything.

And that might be the day his heart gives out for good.

There’s a soft noise in the background. “Yeah, gorgeous girl, I’m talking to your pops,” Yenn says lightly. There’s some shuffling and she’s probably put him on loudspeaker, because she goes back to cooing at the girl.

Geralt’s smile only grows. “Hello princess,” he rumbles. There’s a noise – a gurgle that he’s come to know as her getting excited over something. It’s too late to bring up video chat, and he’s sure Yennefer wouldn’t appreciate either seeing him with bed-head or him seeing her equally as exhausted. So he just has noises to go off on. “Are you causing trouble? Hmm?”

Ciri must be wearing one of her newfound bright smiles because he can hear Yenn laughing in the background. It will be another few days before he’ll be home to them. And then he thinks Ciri might just not leave his arms for a few weeks after that. Being away from her is...strange. He can cope when he knows she’s only in Aedirn and he’s in Kaedwen. A short drive on the motorway will have them reunited. But this is just far enough that he can feel the tether holding them together start to strain.

Geralt hums. “Go to sleep, little cub. Have mercy on your mother.”

Another coo, but it’s quieter. Yenn brings the phone back to her ear. “We’ll be okay,” she assures him; because that was the next question poised on the tip of his tongue. “She’ll wear herself out eventually. And then she’ll be Triss’ problem.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Work?”

“I have a client call in a few hours. I just hope I don’t look as tired as I feel.”

“I’m sure you look as stunningly beautiful and intimidating as usual.”

“You’re sweet, thank you.” Yennefer hushes Ciri, gently rocking her in her arms. She settles again. “How’s the boyfriend?”

“Sleeping.”

“Worn out after all the hot sex you’ve been having?”

 _Yes._ Geralt bites hard down on his lip. “Sure, whatever you say.”

Yenn crows a laugh. “Give yourself some credit. You have a wonderful dick. Be proud!”

“Please don’t talk about my dick or sex life while my daughter is present, thank you.” He can just thank the gods that Ciri isn’t able to understand most things said to her, other than her name and _dad_ and _mum_ , and that she hasn’t started to speak yet.

Yenn hums. “I’m happy for you.”

“What about you? Anyone in your life?”

She doesn’t respond for a while. Not to be elusive, but he knows that she’s thinking. With work being her main concern in her life, second only to her daughter, she doesn’t have the time for someone new to try and etch themselves a nook in any of that. Geralt got a taste of it when she started working in Aedirn. Dates called off last minute because something came up at work, a client that needed to be briefed about their oncoming case, or paperwork that couldn’t wait to be filed. And he was used to it, after a time. But once the paths began to diverge, there was nothing he could do to try and wrangle and knit them back together again.

Yenn sighs. “No, sadly. Though I don’t expect anyone would be _that_ into a vagina that recently went through pushing a baby out of it.”

“I’m sure it’s great,” Geralt huffs through a laugh. “And who’s to say that you were bottoming in the first place?”

“Geralt Rivia,” Yenn lilts, “you know me too well. But no to all of that is the answer. Just too busy.”

It’s odd, how easy it is to talk to her again. He remembers where he couldn’t be in the same room with her without having to run away or vomit, or maybe even both. Too much baggage and raw cuts that hadn’t quite healed over yet before they started picking at them. But now, with the year that’s passed and with Ciri, everything is fine. Good, even.

Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of bed sheets rustling. “I’ve got to go,” he mumbles, wishing that he could be there to kiss his daughter goodnight. And silently berate her to _just go to sleep_.

Yennefer sighs. “Alright. It was good to hear from you.”

“It’s good to hear from you too,” Geralt says. When the call drops, he stays in the bathroom for a minute, listening to the soft grainy humming of the lights above them. He sighs. Standing up, wincing at how his joints click and his muscles protest, he pads back out to the bedroom.

Jaskier lifts his head as soon as Geralt reappears. His eyes are barely open and his hair is fluffy and sticks out at odd angles. It’s endearing. Geralt puts his phone back on to the nightstand and slips back underneath the sheets, happy to have the same insistent arms winding their way back around him.

Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s chest, sighing happily that his personal heater and pillow is back with him. “Everything okay?” he mumbles.

Geralt hums, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “Everything’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer of Vengerberg (both in this fic and just in the general canon) pegs Geralt and you CANNOT change my mind. And bloody hell was she good at it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, just because I wrote 8k of fluff and smut last time and I'm never doing that again 😂

He isn’t quite sure who keeps who in that bed, but the only thing for certain is that they don’t seem to leave it for long. Bathroom breaks and hunting for snacks aside, and maybe the occasional wander out into the town for a restaurant dinner, they spend most of it bare and entangled in each other. Not that either of them is complaining. Certainly not Geralt.

It’s been a long time since his brain has been quiet. He realised it one morning, slowly drifting awake as long beams of morning light stretched into the room. Nothing was there to whisper at him, no concerns or worries or even thoughts. In fact, the first thing he thought that day is how soft Jaskier’s hair looked in the morning. So he threaded his fingers through it, gently massaging the man’s scalp. Jaskier merely hummed, burying his face further into his pillow.

It’s been a quiet few days. The only worry that he has is that when they leave, will those voices come back. Being a world away from anyone or anything else has been a novelty. And while he spends his mornings trying to meld him and Jaskier further together, chasing away the soft chill of the air, or his nights on his back, with the other man on top of him, he takes one moment to be selfish and wish that he could never go back.

“We can always come back,” Jaskier mumbles towards their last nights, his head pillowed on a curled arm. They’re facing each other, while their legs entangle and press underneath the sheets. Jaskier reaches out, dusting the backs of his fingers against Geralt’s cheek. “This can be our spot when we need to get away from it all.”

Geralt hums. A rumbling sort of noise that comes from the core of his chest. His eyelids are too heavy to stay open, so he lets them hood and close as he drifts off to sleep with Jaskier’s touch and words being the last things he remembers.

When the day comes that they have to leave, Jaskier is the one dragging his feet. “Why don’t we just go to Aedirn, grab Ciri, and head back here,” he offers, handing the last of his bags to Geralt. The other man struggles not to roll his eyes. Jaskier lifts his hands. “I’m just saying; Ciri would love it here. Imagine her having all of this space to play with.”

“And we’d have Yennefer barrelling through our door and killing us in our sleep,” Geralt reasons, closing the door of the car. With the _thunk_ , that’s it – their vacation is over and it’s back to their boroughs. He’s sad about it. Jaskier’s right; this has been a nice place for them to burrow down and hide away. And they can always come back to it.

But Ciri comes before anything else, and he’s desperate to see her in person and not just through pictures and video calls.

 _Gods alive_ , he thinks, nudging Jaskier to get in the passenger seat _, how will I ever cope when she goes to college?_

He might just die.

* * *

_Yennefer : So, don’t freak out-_

**Geralt : You do not it’s not very reassuring to start your sentences like that...**

_Yennefer : -But Ciri has been crying all through the night so she might be a little grump when you pick her up_

_Yennefer : Triss thinks she’s teething_

**Geralt : Oh fuck.**

_Yennefer : Good luck with that x_

* * *

He can hear her before he sees her. His chest tightens when the grumbles and cries get louder. As soon as Yenn’s apartment door opens, Ciri is in his arms and muffling noises into his chest within seconds. Peering over the girl’s head, he takes in Yennefer. She looks exhausted, dark shadows settling in underneath her eyes and her hair haphazardly thrown up into some sort of bun. With her hands free, she scrubs at her face and sighs heavily.

Geralt clicks his tongue. “It’s alright,” he coos, gently swaying Ciri from side to side. She tempers, just slightly. Probably more intrigued at her father suddenly reappearing after a week. It must have felt like a lifetime to her – it felt even longer for him.

Yennefer hands him Ciri’s bag, already stuffed with everything he could need and more. “It’s definitely teething,” she says, curling a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I looked at her mouth and there’s some redness there. Do you have any kid-friendly pain relief at your place?”

Geralt shakes his head. “We can pick some up on the way.”

They manage to make it back down to the car in one peace. Ciri sets her head against his chest and chews on her fist. He opens the backdoor of the car, throwing her bag in first before setting about putting her in her seat.

Jaskier cranes his head. “What’s up?”

“Teething,” Geralt grunts, setting Ciri into her seat. Her cheeks are ruddy from a flush of colour and what he can only presume are dried tears. He hates seeing her cry, mainly because she doesn’t do it that often. She’ll fuss, and ever since her Uncle Lambert taught her how to chuck things around, she’s become deadly with some of her harder plastic toys. Eskel’s ankles have been terrorised on numerous occasions. But she doesn’t really cry. So when a fed-up, grumpy sort of grumble bubbles up her throat, Geralt is there to dust a kiss to her forehead. “Hey now, it’s okay. We’ll have you home and sorted in no time. Alright?”

Jaskier stretches back to hand her one of her stuffed toys – a purple stuffed dragon Pris got her when she was born. Little grubby hands grab on to it and huddle it close to her chest. She looks as pissed off as ever – she _hates_ being in her car seat – but if the damn dragon will keep her soothed until they get to Geralt’s apartment then that’s fine by him.

* * *

Lambert storms into the living room, a frown etched into his face. “Make it stop.”

Ciri is crying.

Ciri has been crying for almost an hour now.

Non-stop.

Without so much as taking a breath to breathe.

And Geralt _really_ doesn’t need Lambert adding to the noise.

He bounces the baby in his arms, gentling her from side to side as he tries to settle her down. Nothing has been working. The over-the-counter pain relief didn’t seem to do anything. And Jaskier is huddled over his phone, quickly looking up just about anything else that might help.

“She’s a baby, dickhead,” Eskel scowls, looking up from his laptop. “It’s not her fault.”

“You weren’t exactly a quiet child either,” Geralt grumbles, taking another lap of the kitchen. He scans everything and anything, looking for _something_ for her to focus her attention on other than the uncomfortable pain in her mouth. He has a faint afterimage of a memory of Lambert teething. The other man has always been loud, but gods alive did Geralt think that he might have shaken the house’s foundations by crying.

Jaskier’s head perks up. “Does she have a soother?” he asks, reaching out for her hand as Geralt passes.

Even red-cheeked and crying and whimpering into her dad’s chest, she still lets her hand curl around Jaskier’s finger. If she tries to yank at it or bite it, then really it’s his own fault. “Yeah,” Geralt answers, nodding to the hallway. “It should be in her bag. Why?”

They’ve already tried it and she chucked it on to the floor. So whatever Lambert has to say about a baby doing baby things like crying, maybe Geralt can blame some of it on him.

Jaskier is away from the breakfast bar and scurrying down the hall as quickly as he can. When he comes back, two soothers in his hand, he sticks one of them into the freezer. “The cold should help,” he says, padding over to Geralt with the other soother. “Try it again. This is the only thing that keeps popping up when I search.”

And Ciri is fussy at the best of times. Even only half a year old, she already hates mashed turnips and bananas, has a general distaste for being taken out of her play-gym even for a feed. So when Jaskier offers her the soother, she eyes it for a moment before burying her face back into the dip of Geralt’s chest.

“Come on, darling,” Jaskier gentles, “I know you’re in pain and you’re upset, but this will help. I promise.”

“He’s reasoning with a baby,” Lambert says breathlessly, rolling his eyes and marching back to his room.

Some gentle bargaining might just have worked, though. Geralt peers down just as Ciri tentatively reaches out, grabbing at the soother and trying to yank it away from Jaskier. They’ve been here before. She’ll either wait for him to let go and toss it on to the floor, or she’ll actually try and gnaw at it. Geralt’s money is on the former.

But to his surprise, the crying simmers down into a whimpering as she brings the toy to her mouth, idly chewing at it for a few moments.

Eskel’s head perks up. “Is it over?” he asks a bit tentatively.

No one moves for a moment. But Ciri has three pairs of eyes glued to her as she gnaws on the soother, her free fist curling into the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. It’s tearstained, but he doesn’t care at all. He’s afraid to move. Even the small shuffle from the kitchen to the couch in the living room seems like a leagues-long journey.

But Ciri settles.

And Geralt feels like he can breathe again.

He pads over to the couch, sighing heavily when he can relax back into the cushions and let Ciri rest against his chest. Jaskier joins him. “There, that wasn’t so bad was it?” the other coos, letting her grab on to his finger again. Eskel watches them out of the corner of his eye, but goes back to his laptop.

Some TV show drones on in the background, long-forgotten after Typhoon Ciri. When she’s had enough of her soother, almost an hour or so later, she throws it over to the other side of the couch. Jaskier is up and padding over to the freezer, rifling through it to grab the cooled ring of plastic.

Ciri, perched on Geralt’s chest, doesn’t look too bothered by anything now. She fidgets with the fabric of his tee and tries her best to lift her head up and look at him. A sudden smile stretches across her lips. Storms caused by this kid never tend to last long, and they make way for clearer, calmer skies. Geralt leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to the crown of her head. “Little monster,” he grumbles into her wisps of blonde hair. She gurgles.

Jaskier hands her the cool pacifier. “Here you go,” he says, talking as easily to her as he would to Geralt or Eskel. Ciri takes it without much issue and gnaws on it while the TV drones on in the background. It’s some cooking show Eskel had been pouring over. Vesemir’s birthday is crawling closer and despite the man not wanting a party, and just wanting to be in charge of his own kitchen, Eskel had organised them to go over for a few hours, and he’ll come armed with food.

Geralt bounces Ciri. “We’re going to see Grandpa, aren’t we?” he mumbles. With her all cried-out and pliant against his chest, Ciri merely mutters some sound and leaves it at that.

It’s a world away from Pont Vanis. They were still entangled in each other and soft bedsheets this morning. And all the calm that the vacation brought him has slowly begun to calcify and crack. Jaskier rests his head against his shoulder, slowly beginning to mould into his side. Jaskier has this innate sort of ability to sense him tensing. When the voices come whispering against the shell of his ear, and his heart quickens and his chest tightens, Jaskier is there to brush them away.

Geralt turns, dusting a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. The other man’s face wrinkles in a smile. “What’s that for?” he mumbles, mindful of the calm quiet that has settled over the room.

Geralt shrugs his free shoulder. “Nothing, just...wanted to.”

* * *

Vesemir’s protests die on the tip of his tongue as soon as Ciri is placed in his arms. His eyes still have a haunting glint to them. That he _is_ going to murder each and every one of his sons in their sleep. But with his granddaughter bundled in his arms, reaching up to tug at stray strands of his hair falling out of its tie, he really can’t commit to homicide just yet.

Eskel quietly works in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the door just in case his dad walks in to delegate tasks. If he has the baby, then he can’t do anything. And that’s the reasoning and logic Eskel’s going to make his bed with.

Jaskier follows Geralt like a shadow. He knows his family; he’s been invited into their homes for a year now, and they all seem to like him just fine. But he just can’t settle. So he sticks himself to Geralt’s side and stalks him around from room to room.

Geralt doesn’t mind. Eventually, he threads their fingers together and lets their hands rest in between them. Jaskier squeezes their hands – a small _thank you_.

Vesemir sits down in his usual armchair in the living room, with Ciri perched on his lap. She still needs to be held on to, but she’s gotten more control over her arms and legs, and she’s nearly able to keep her head up on her own. She’s been in Vesemir’s house plenty of times, but she still looks around the room with the same wide-eyed wonder she has for most things in the world. Vesemir’s house is starting to fill with things he’s collected over the years. Settling into the house among the forest, it’s slowly becoming more and more like his own space. Contending with three young sons, all living on top of each other in their Kaedwen apartment, it left a lot to be desired.

Geralt and Jaskier fall into a nearby couch. With Eskel busying himself in the kitchen and Lambert talking to someone on the phone out in the backyard, there’s nothing else for them to do. Geralt cocks his head when Ciri flails an arm around to him. A wave? Or else she’s just trying to talk to him. Babbling and cooing have become engrained into his life now. On the nights where the girl is with her mum, he finds himself lying awake, straining his ears to listen out for the familiar sounds of his daughter.

Jaskier fidgets by his side, letting his fingers curl on top of Geralt’s thigh. “I think Eskel said something about needing your help,” he says quietly. Far too quietly for the words to drift out to the kitchen.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Eskel...needs my help?”

Jaskier nods.

It’s bullshit, but Geralt sighs and stands. He winces at the slight crack of joints and protesting muscles – all laughed off by Vesemir. “For fuck sake Geralt, you’re still a young man,” he chuckles, bouncing Ciri on his knee. “I dealt with three of you when I was your age.”

And doesn’t he like to remind them all about it.

_You pups will put me in an early grave._

But he goes, padding out into the kitchen. Eskel glowers at him as soon as he steps inside, armed with a wooden spoon. “What do you want?” he asks, not turning his attention away from a pot of stew.

Geralt folds his arms. “Jaskier said you needed my help.”

Eskel’s face almost sours. “Well, I don’t.”

“Thought so.”

“So why are you here?”

Well, that’s the question.

“I can hear him talking to Vesemir,” he says, shuffling further into the kitchen. The house isn’t small, but it’s now sprawling either. And with the hissing of boiling water and the soft hum of the oven, it drowns out whatever Jaskier and Vesemir might be talking about. But it doesn’t do anything to stop his chest from tightening.

Eskel seems to understand though. He always does. He nods to a nearby pot. “Drain those,” he says, “and put them on a tray. Grab some butter and oil and the herbs I have in that bag and put them in the oven.”

Eskel maintains kitchens like a king would over his kingdom. Or some sort of dictator at the very least. Geralt goes where he’s told, doing whatever Eskel orders him to do. Within fifteen minutes, with the potatoes crisped up from the oven and a leg of beef starting to fall off of it’s bone, Eskel shoos him out. “You’re done here,” he says, practically pushing Geralt back towards the living room.

When he steps inside, Jaskier has Ciri, showing her some new brightly coloured plush blocks they bought for her once she grew tired of her other toys. Anything she takes from him, she tosses it further on to the couch. “Now, now, madam,” Jaskier lightly tisks, “you cannot just hurl people’s gifts into the gutter. Here you go.”

Another brick goes flying, this time on to the floor.

Vesemir chuckles from his chair, his temple perched against his fist and his eyes beginning to hood. He has always looked younger than he is. A life working in a garage has left him stocky and well-built; even with the past few years spent on taking things slow and eating more and more. But the way the shadows cut his face, Geralt realises with a pang in his chest just how old his father is. A weathered face and worn eyes, with hair as white as snow. Every single wrinkle and stress-line the man has is a direct result from raising the three of them.

But his lips are curled in a fond smile, and those eyes, while tired, watch his granddaughter giggle and babble some sort of conversation with Jaskier while he shows her a new stuffed animal.

Geralt’s lip twitches into a smile. The tightness around his chest loosens, letting him fill his lungs with air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello. I was wondering if the audience would be out there for some spin-off drabbles connected with this fic, mainly about the other characters. Uncle Eskel and Uncle Lambert could be a whole fic in itself, but also Yennefer, Vesemir with the boys when they were kids, etc. I've had some ideas for them, but if any of you would like to see them then that'd be great! Also if you have any ideas of your own, either comment here on the fic or hit me up on my tumblrs/twitter!


	25. Chapter 25

Jaskier is up to something. There’s a certain glint in his eye that tells him as much. Now it’s just a matter of finding out what that something is. Even boneless and sated in bed, with the man moulded to his side and gently dusting his fingers along Geralt’s chest, he’s still as stubborn as ever. “Nothing,” he answers, when the question is posed to him. Jaskier looks up at him. Bleary blue eyes, fond but definitely on their way to sleep.

Geralt hums. “Fine,” he mumbles, brushing his hand up and down Jaskier’s bare back. “Keep your secrets.”

Jaskier swats at him. “Using a man’s own words against him isn’t fair, you know?”

He doesn’t stop him from guessing. Mainly because he’s curious, and a little bit because he delights in how Jaskier’s hold on sanity slowly starts to wane as the days go on. He grabs Jaskier whenever he can; whether they’re in his apartment or Jaskier’s house, huddled around a breakfast table in the morning or lain in bed at night, or even in the car where he knows the other man can’t escape. Though, he does look tempted to open the door and jump into oncoming traffic when Geralt brings it up again and again.

“A trip?” he tries.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, a light laugh huffing out of him. “We literally just got back from a trip.”

Geralt keeps his eyes on the road. Winter means darker, longer nights and slippery roads. “So no?”

“No.”

Eventually, his brothers join in. Eskel for curiosity, and Lambert mainly because he has nothing better to do with his time. His first mistake was spending the night over at Geralt’s apartment. Jaskier’s fingers tighten around his book. He’s going to throw it; Geralt can tell. The living room stopped being a safe place as soon as Geralt’s brothers joined in on the interrogations. So he retreated to Geralt’s room. But even then—

Jaskier lifts his eyes up and over the top of it, glowering at the two men sticking their heads in through the door. “If I’m not telling Geralt then I’m not telling you two, am I?” A small growl rumbles out of Jaskier’s throat as he lifts his book back up to shield him from view.

Eskel arches an eyebrow. “So you _are_ planning something?”

Lambert claps his hands. “We should be detectives.”

The shittiest detectives this side of the Continent, maybe, Geralt thinks to himself. He hides his smile into his mug and sips at his tea. Ciri lies stretched out in her crib, blissfully ignorant of everything around her. What a nice life to have. Her hands clench and bumble around, and Geralt sets his tea aside to reach into the cot and run the back of his finger along the girl’s cheek. She quietens as soon as he touches her.

Jaskier makes a noise by his side. “Help me,” he nudges Geralt’s leg underneath the sheets.

Geralt regards his brothers for a while. “Hmm,” he muses. “No.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow at him. “Dickhead,” he grumbles.

Lambert clicks his tongue. “Don’t swear around the baby,” he says over his shoulder, stepping back into the hallway. He can only ever bother Jaskier for so long before he starts to get bored.

Jaskier splutters as he drops his book down again. “ _Don’t sw_ —you’re betting that her first word will be _fuck_!”

* * *

_Jaskier : Where’s Geralt?_

**_Eskel : In the office. Why?_ **

_Jaskier : Can you and Lambert meet me after you finish up? Just you two, please._

**_Eskel : Okay...?_ **

Jaskier fidgets with his phone, twirling it around in his hand as his leg trembles underneath the table. He hides in a small cafe near the garage, but one that he knows Geralt doesn’t visit often. He’s busy with Ciri, loading her stuff into his car and dropping her over to Yennefer as soon as he’s finished tying up the last invoices and client appointments.

The cafe is quiet enough, a few patrons sitting in nearby tables hunched over laptops and books and talking among themselves. Jaskier is possibly the only one here who looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. And he very well could. His chest is tight and his heart is hammering against his ribcage, threatening to break through and flop on to the table in front of him. His stomach churns with every passing minute, and time won’t move any quicker.

He checks the time again just as the door’s bell chimes. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of Lambert and Eskel strolling in, laughing at something or other. When they spot him, their smiles fade a bit, but it’s more worry that settles over their faces more than anything else. He doesn’t text Geralt’s brothers that often; only when he’s staying over at their house and messaging them to pick up something on their way home.

Jaskier’s fidgeting only gets worse.

“Hey,” Eskel says, always the first one to greet him when it isn’t Geralt. Lambert doesn’t hate him. Lambert doesn’t hate anyone. But he’s just closed off and lets someone else speak first. So he lets Eskel set his crossed arms on to the table while he lounges back into his chair, folding his arms over his chest and watching Jaskier carefully. Eskel lifts his chin. “What did you want to talk about? Are you okay?”

He’s sweet. A guy harbouring a scarred face and deep-set muscle that is as sweet as a kitten. His eyes soften as Jaskier looks down at his trembling hands. “Yeah, uh, I’m fine. I just,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I just needed to talk to you guys about Geralt.”

Lambert regards him for a moment. “You’re not breaking up with him, are you?” _Because we’d have to kill you otherwise_. The last part goes unsaid, but it does sour Jaskier’s tongue. Eskel turns to glower at his younger brother, but does turn back to Jaskier with a slightly arched eyebrow.

“No, no, gods alive,” Jaskier rushes. “I, uh... _gods_ , I was, um, fuck—”

He makes a tight sound in the back of his throat. He reaches into his bag, sitting idly by his feet, and fishes out a smaller felt bag with a box inside of it. He sets it in the middle of the table, in some no man's land between him and Geralt’s brothers. Both Eskel and Lambert eye it for a moment, with Eskel about to reach out and examine it, when—

“I was thinking about asking him to marry me.” The words rush out, clumped against each other and in one breath. They could have been lost, either to the wind or to the soft hum of conversation surrounding them in the cafe. Eskel and Lambert just stare at him for a while, before turning to the bag on the table.

“That’s...” Eskel’s lips thin as he hums.

Lambert looks at him blankly. “Why are you telling us about it?”

Jaskier groans, burying his face into his hands. “You fucking idiots, I’m asking if it’s okay!”

“Of course it’s okay!” Eskel says.

Lambert still doesn’t look too sure, but he hums. “So why would you have to ask us?”

 _By all the gods._ “Okay!” Jaskier throws his hands up, sighing heavily. Well, that wasn’t how he thought it would go but it’s done now. He has permission from everyone; Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert. Jaskier rubs his face. How in the names of all of the gods is he going to ask Geralt? He might throw up, even now; his stomach churns and his throat bobs with every shuddering breath. He can’t imagine how he’s going to feel when he’s in front of the other man, box in hand.

His ears twitch at the scrape of chairs against the floor. Before he can collect himself, two sets of burly arms coil around him and bring him into a crushing hug. Sandwiched between the two men, Jaskier tries to catch his breath. “Alright, cool,” Jaskier bats lightly at their arms, “I can’t propose if I’ve been smothered to death.”

The hug only tightens. “You’ll be our brother-in-law!” Eskel marvels, squeezing his arms even tighter around Jaskier. Lambert, for all his gruffness, buries his face into Jaskier’s shoulder. It’s the closest he’s even been to the other man. He tries to think back, and apart from a few claps of hands on his shoulders and a few nudges, Lambert has never hugged him – ever.

A few curious eyes look over to them from neighbouring tables. There’s a notable lull in the conversations that had swirled around him. Jaskier clears his throat. “Sorry,” he mumbles, idly waving a hand. “Go about your business.”

When both Eskel and Lambert let go of him, he languishes in the ability to draw in a full breath again. It’s shaky and does nothing to stop the clenching feeling in his chest, but it’s welcomed. When Eskel and Lambert take their seats again, eyeing at the bag, Jaskier nods. “You can look, if you want.” A warm flush settles on his cheeks when Eskel reaches out – the gentler and more considerate of the two. Not that he doesn’t trust Lambert. But quite a lot of coin went into that ring, and if he was to lose it now then he might as well just walk into the ocean.

Eskel fishes out the box; simple, small, and layered in soft felt. He uncaps it and his eyes widen at it. The ring itself is nothing special – a simple band of obsidian. He couldn’t place Geralt as being someone overtly covetous of gold or silver or gems. And anything gaudy or bright just wouldn’t have suited him anyway. So he went to every jeweller he could think of, and by the end of his search, he had what he was looking for.

Lambert looks over to Jaskier. “He’ll like that.”

“He better fucking like it,” Jaskier mumbles, coiling his arms together and setting them on the table. His coffee is long forgotten about – a shame, really. He likes this place. He’ll order another to go once he’s done here, and possibly one for Geralt.

Eskel hums, putting the ring back in its box, and the box back in the bag. “When are you thinking of asking him?”

And that’s the question that has been swirling around Jaskier’s brain ever since getting the notion of asking Geralt to marry him.

He lifts a shoulder. “We don’t even live together,” he offers lamely.

Lambert snorts. “He’s either at your place or you’re at ours. You _do_ live together.”

Eskel hums an agreement.

* * *

“You’ve been very quiet.”

Jaskier looks up just as Geralt slips into bed. Winter is still hanging on with deeply dug claws, leaving the nights still long and the days short. He bristles for spring. Maybe the days will start getting that bit warmer. But winter seems here to stay for now.

He still hasn’t done it. The whole _proposing_ thing. There just...hasn’t been the right time. Eskel and Lambert still watch him, eagerly waiting for when he’s going to do it. They wait by the door every time he and Geralt come home from dinner or a date, eyeing their brother’s finger for a ring. One of these days, he’s just going to have to kill Eskel with one of his own kitchen knives and possibly push Lambert down the stairwell outside: he can’t cope.

He’s not going to make an elaborate scene of it. Going to a fancy restaurant or making a display out in a park they go to, or even on another vacation. He wouldn’t put the other man through any of that. Knowing that other people can watch them, in something as intimate as asking someone to share their life with them, it’s not Jaskier’s thing. And Geralt might just about have a meltdown if he even tried to do that.

So they’re here, in Geralt’s apartment, full-bellied after a hearty dinner and dozing in bed. Geralt shuffles down on to his side, pillowing an arm under his head and watches Jaskier with a faint smile curled along his lips. Jaskier likes this Geralt; fond-eyed and soft. It’s not a Geralt that many people get to see. Jaskier reaches out and brushes his fingers along Geralt’s cheek. The man’s smile only grows.

The box sits in one of his bags, pushed into one corner of Geralt’s room. He’s kept an eye on it for the last few days of his stay. Geralt would never dream of routing through any of Jaskier’s stuff, but sometimes when he needs something like a fresh tee for after a shower or one of his many pairs of coloured socks because his feet get cold. So Jaskier has been very protective of his bags.

His chest is still tight. A maelstrom churns around in his head. They live together, but not _together_. Geralt still lives here and Jaskier has his own place in Redania, and he can’t see them being the married couple that has two separate houses. But he’s already asked three members of Geralt’s family, and they’ve been watching him for the past few days and it’s looming over Jaskier—

“Marry me.”

As soon as it slips out of Jaskier’s lips, his fingers still. With deeply his boyfriend is dozing, and how quietly he mumbled the words, he faintly wishes that they just drifted right over Geralt. But the man’s brows knit together in a soft frown. “What?” he mumbles.

Jaskier chews the inside of his cheek. Well, it’s out now. Or he can mutter _nothing_ , turn around and go to sleep, hoping that Geralt is too food-sleepy to comprehend what he said.

No.

 _Pull yourself together, Pankratz_. Jaskier’s throat bobs as he tastes the words on his mouth. “Would you...” he breathes, “marry me?”

Geralt watches him for a moment. And he’s always been a quiet guy, preferring to keep to himself and watch from the sidelines, but _gods alive_ even a grunt or a hum would do—

Geralt pushes himself up slightly, looking down on Jaskier. If he could burrow underneath the blankets or through the mattress, or even down the dozen or so floors of the apartment building and straight down to hell, that would be perfect.

“What,” Geralt stutters, “why are you asking?”

Something huffs out of Jaskier, something that might have been a tight laugh. Because it’s ridiculous. As soon as the words slipped out of him, he wanted to wrangle them back. “I don’t think it’s a question of _why_ , darling,” Jaskier rambles, suddenly overflowing with words. He couldn’t still his tongue if he tried. “You, you don’t have to. It’s silly. Just, um, just forget I ever said anything.”

Geralt’s frown only deepens. “Jaskier,” he mutters, trying to budge in through what’s pouring out of Jaskier’s mouth.

“No, really Geralt, it’s fine, let’s just go to sleep. Forget it. I’m just in some mood where—”

Plush, familiar lips press against his. Jaskier’s throat bobs, but his eyelids flicker shut and he kisses back. Geralt hums. When he pulls away, he sets their foreheads together. Jaskier’s breath trembles. “Calm down,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier doesn’t have the right frame of mind to comment on how ironic that is – that _Geralt_ is telling _him_ to calm down.

They stay flush together, letting their breaths slowly match each others. Eventually, Jaskier’s shoulders drop. The churning in his stomach quietens, but only just. Geralt is slow and methodical with his movements, gentling a hand against Jaskier’s cheek and dusting his thumb along the arch of his cheekbone.

“Okay,” Geralt mumbles, keeping his voice low, “do you want to try that again?”

Jaskier chews his lip. He really doesn’t. He isn’t ready. But he’s said it, and he can’t just leave the words hanging over them—

He draws in a steady breath. “Would you,” he mumbles through numbed lips, “like to marry me?”

Geralt hums, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “I would like to,” he mumbles against the skin. Jaskier’s eyes close. This is too much. His heart is so full it might just burst. Geralt’s lips leave him. “Is that what you’re asking now? For us...to get married?”

 _Yes_.

“We, uh, we don’t have to get married right away, I just,” Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “I just realised that I, I can’t be without you. I don’t know if that’s romantic or creepy, but I want, _gods_ —”

Geralt smiles; one that crinkles his eyes. He’s enjoying this, the prick. While Jaskier’s heart is stuttering in his chest, Geralt is _laughing_ at him—

Jaskier draws in a shuddering breath. “I want to spend my life with you. If that’s okay?”

A barking laugh slips out of Geralt. “Yeah,” he grins, “that’s alright.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They’re quiet for a moment, just close and looking at each other. Geralt leans forward, gently catching Jaskier’s lips in a quiet and soft kiss. The world around them slips away as Jaskier sighs, a small moan slipping out of his throat when he feels Geralt’s tongue run along the seam of his lips. Jaskier tilts his head, worming his hand around to Geralt’s nape and holding him close. Tongues glide, and if he were to have nothing else, he would make peace with it. This is where he wants to be. Geralt kisses him wholly, his hands wandering and skimming over every stretch of skin he can find.

When they pull away, for air more than anything else, Geralt huffs a short laugh against Jaskier’s lips. “Not how you planned on asking me, I imagine?”

Jaskier hums. “Not at all—”

The door to the room flies open, almost smacking against the wall. Lambert is the first in, his hand stretched out to shield his eyes. “Well, did he ask?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Yes, he asked,” he grumbles, rolling on to his back on his own side of the bed, “now you can stop hovering over the two of us. I presume you idiots we waiting until he did?”

Eskel blanches, flush against Lambert’s back as he wrangles the man to put his hand down. “You noticed that?”

“Of course I noticed!” Geralt exclaims, waving a hand to the hallway. “I couldn’t get a few steps into my own home without you two hanging off of me.”

Jaskier buries his face into his pillow. The whole thing is fucking _ridiculous_. Can’t they ever just have something go normally? Eventually, he feels Geralt move. He must fling something – probably a spare pillow at his brothers, because within seconds they scurry out of the room and shut the door behind them.

Geralt’s shoulders shake with a light laugh. “They’re gone now,” he mumbles, leaning over to card his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. As soon as Jaskier turns away from the pillow, Geralt leans down to pepper kisses along his cheek, moving slowly down to dot one at the corner of his lip. Jaskier hums, tilting his head to kiss his lips and coil an arm around his shoulders.

They stay like that for a moment, entangled in each other and in the bedsheets. Warmth seeps into Jaskier’s skin and bones. For a moment, one would forget about the winter wanting to dig its claws in and linger. But he’ll have Geralt now for every winter coming, close to him and—

Jaskier pulls away. “Oh!” he looks over to his bags. He scrambles out of the bed, biting down on a hiss as cold, winter air nips his skin and his bare feet touch the floorboards. He makes a quick journey over to his bags, rifling through them to get the box. He leaves a small pile of tees and socks on the ground, but he’ll sort it out in the morning. He can’t get back into bed quick enough. Geralt waits there, a fond smile curling his lip and softening his eyes. 

The other man catches and lifts the comforter, letting Jaskier burrow underneath it. Geralt has always been a radiator of heat, something that Jaskier has taken full advantage of. It’s not a rare occurrence for the other man to wake up with Jaskier curled along his back or into his chest, his arms and legs entangled in his.

Geralt eyes what Jaskier fumbles with. Jaskier’s hand shakes as he pries open the box, fishing the ring out. Even though it’s jet black, its surface glints as it catches the lamp’s light.

Geralt’s eyes widen. He’s slow to reach out for it. “This...”

Jaskier swallows, a lump trying to catch in his throat. He nods to Geralt’s hand. “Here,” he mumbles through half-numb lips. His hands tremble; whether it’s nervousness still clinging to him or excitement or a mixture of the two. He runs through Geralt’s words in his mind, looping them again and again. The ring slips on easily, and Jaskier’s breath hitches at how starkly the black sits against Geralt’s pale skin. People will notice it. People who know them both, know that they’re together, will know that they’re tied now.

Geralt looks at the ring, turning his hand to let it catch the beams of light. Golden eyes flicker over to Jaskier’s. The man leans down, catching a crooked finger under Jaskier’s chin and tilting him up for a kiss, long and languid and one that has Jaskier’s toes curling. He reaches up, setting a hand against Geralt’s jaw.

When they break apart again, Jaskier can’t stop the giddy smile starting to stretch across his lips.

Geralt hums, keeping the man’s chin caught between his finger and his thumb. “Is this what you and Vesemir talked about a few weeks ago?” he rumbles.

“Hmm.” Jaskier brushes his thumb over Geralt’s jaw. “He was all for it. Though, he mentioned something about breaking both of my kneecaps if I broke your heart.”

Geralt chuckles. “A fair price to pay.”

“But I like my kneecaps...”

“They _are_ good kneecaps.”

“The best,” Jaskier hums, leaning forward for another kiss. Heat blooms in his chest as his heart begins to settle. His hands shake and the tips of his fingers are numb, but Geralt’s familiar weight settling over him chases the worst of the lingering chill away. Jaskier laughs against his lips, letting his arms coil over and around Geralt’s shoulders.

They’re entwined now. A black band around Geralt’s finger, with one to join Jaskier’s when they’re ready. And then they’ll be stuck with each other. And Jaskier doesn’t mind that at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll, when I tell you that I had MAJOR writer's block for this chapter. As if my own queer brain didn't want my boys getting engaged. Had to do a hard reset of the main system controls and power through 'til the end. 
> 
> But my boys are getting ✨ Married ✨


	26. Chapter 26

Sleep is slow to let go of him. Outside, he distantly hears the gusts of winter winds starting to pick up and lash against the windows. The pattering of rain follows. Geralt buries his nose into his pillow, sighing and seeping back into the plush bed underneath him. The arm coiled around him tightens as Jaskier shuffles closer, holding on to Geralt as if he would slip away. The sheets cocooning them are warm and soft and smell just like them, hanging on to the musk of sex and the slight tang of Jaskier’s usual cologne.

Just outside of their room, Geralt hears the familiar shuffle and padding of footfalls on the floorboards. Smells of breakfast will join it soon enough, slipping underneath the doorframe and luring both of them out of bed. Until then—

He rolls as much as he’s able, dislodging Jaskier for a moment. The man whines, softly pawing at any bit of Geralt’s skin he can reach until Geralt can lay on his back, throw an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, and huddle him close to his chest. The soft frown knitting Jaskier’s brow smoothes just as he settles against Geralt’s side, burrowing his face into the hollow of the man’s neck. It’s soft and warm, and Geralt’s chest clenches when he looks down at the man. A glint of light catches his eye – a black band capturing his ring finger. He stares as it when his fingers comb through Jaskier’s hair. The ring sits stark against his skin, proclaiming on its own that they’re entangled now.

He can’t help but imagine how those conversations went – the ones with Vesemir and his brothers. Vesemir, his usual cool guard drawn up as he mused over whatever must have come fumbling out of Jaskier’s mouth. Eskel and Lambert equally as guarded, but delighted all the same.

Jaskier makes a quiet sound, most of it lost to Geralt’s skin. “You awake?”

He’s not the greatest of wordsmiths in the mornings. Geralt smiles, turning his head to press a kiss to Jaskier’s hair. He hums.

A long, quiet moment passes, and for a moment Geralt thinks that the other man might have fallen back asleep. But his nose wrinkles at the smell of fried sausage and bacon slowly slipping into the room from beneath the crack of the door. Jaskier paws uselessly at Geralt’s chest. “Breakfast,” he mumbles, trying his best to push Geralt into action. Geralt swallows on a small laugh, mustering all the energy he can to slip out of bed and set about finding some clothes. Sweatpants will do. They’ve all lived together for their whole lives, and no one will say anything about Geralt wandering out of his room shirtless. But he looks down at himself as spots a few reddened marks left from the other man last night. So he grabs one of his older tees, one that’s starting to fray around the neck and hang off of him a bit.

Jaskier burrows back into their nest of blankets and pillows, hugging Geralt’s warmed sheets to him and burying his nose into them. Geralt’s chest tightens. He wants to stay. Something keeps his feet rooted to the ground and wants to nudge him back into bed. But his stomach rumbles at another warming scent of fried bacon and buttered toast slipping into the room. He’ll be quick.

A few plates of food are already made up by the time he pads into the kitchen. Eskel finishes basting a few eggs with oil, keeping the yolks runny just how Lambert likes them. Eskel gives a non-committal grunt as Geralt pads over to the kitchen island and grabs what he can only presume are his and Jaskier’s plates. A few strips of bacon, some sausage, roasted tomatoes for Jaskier, and an ample amount of eggs – scrambled and fried. Geralt nabs a spare slice of toast sitting nearby.

He doesn’t miss how Eskel’s eyes linger on his hand. He doesn’t feel any sort of need to curl his fingers into his fist. The ring is there; stark black against his skin. And Eskel knows that it’s there, since Jaskier went about asking him for permission in the first place.

But Eskel turns away again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip. Somewhere else in the apartment, down the hall, both of them hear a muffled, grunted curse. Lambert’s up. None of them are particularly morning people. Eskel is more with it than the others, actually having the wherewithal to organise meals and cook. Geralt is only up because Jaskier pushed him out of bed in search of food. And Lambert...

The man steps into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes and squinting. “Why is everything so fucking bright?” he grumbles, hobbling over to the kitchen. He must have hit his foot off of something then.

Eskel snorts. “Because you spent the night _celebrating our brother’s engagement_ ,” he says, already blindly handing a plate laden with fried meats and eggs to the man as he passes.

Geralt glances over to the sink. Sat perched beside it are bottles of beer, all empty. As well as a bottle of Vesemir’s brewed vodka, still half-full, thank the gods. Whatever their father does to that brew should be illegal. A few sips of it and it’s a blacked-out night, possibly into the morning.

Some sort of argument brews between Eskel and Lambert. Something about the celebrations and who started what. Geralt can’t keep up. He takes himself and his breakfast back towards his room, rolling his eyes at the argument slowly becoming a distant din.

He steps back into his room and kicks the door shut behind him.

Jaskier lifts his head from the bed, eyes trying their best to stay open and his hair sticking out in every direction. Geralt hands him his plate, making sure that he doesn’t spill anything – mainly because it’s Jaskier, and even though he’ll try and be careful, sleep still has its fingers curled around him.

Geralt settles down on his side, rearranging the pillows slightly so that he can sit propped up against the headboard. Jaskier does the same. They eat in silence. Jaskier is...talkative. He makes noises whenever silence falls, mainly just to fill it so it doesn’t turn awkward. Geralt struggles to think that Jaskier’s mind is every quiet, quickly jumping from one thought to another, even when the initial thought isn’t quite finished. But now, with the time they’ve spent together, they’re both happy to sit with each other and just be. One of them will inevitably try and steal the other’s toast, or Geralt will move a slice of bacon off of his plate to Jaskier’s because the other man likes it more and always inhales his own portion within minutes. But other than that, they’re happy to stay still and let silence settle.

By the time they’re finished, the sun is a bit stronger in the sky. Streams of light streak into the room, breaking through the heavy, rain-laden clouds settled over the borough. Winter can be cold and wet and he hates it. Everything is grey and stripped of colour. But the room is warm – especially when Jaskier takes their plates, sets them aside, and burrows back into Geralt’s chest. He isn’t sure how long they’ll stay there. He’ll happily stay all day if he wanted to. Jaskier might just have him pinned on that. The man grows heavier in his arms with each passing second, and Geralt thinks that he might have drifted back off to sleep now that his stomach is full and warm. But Jaskier’s hand drifts over Geralt’s chest, quietly mapping out every stretch of skin he can find.

Geralt moves his hand up to catch Jaskier’s. The singer makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat when he spots the ring banded around Geralt’s finger. They lace their fingers together, with Jaskier insistently turning Geralt’s hand in every direction just to look at the ring.

Geralt chuckles. “Admiring your own work?”

“What can I say, I have great taste,” Jaskier hums, peering up at Geralt. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

Geralt just about manages not to roll his eyes. “Not your best compliment,” he rumbles, leaning down to catch Jaskier’s lips in a chaste kiss. The man smiles into it, one that has his cheeks rounding and his eyes crinkling. A hand soon settles on Geralt’s cheek, and the kiss deepens. Any trace of sleep clinging on to either of them is chased away when Jaskier manages to climb on top of him, bracing his knees on either side of Geralt’s hips and pressing their chests together.

Geralt’s hands drop to Jaskier’s waist, keeping him where he is. Not that he would want to be anywhere else.

* * *

**Geralt : Can I call you?**

_Yennefer : I have a work thing in an hour. You’ll have to be quick. Or you can call me later? I should be free at 2 pm._

**Geralt : I need to tell you something. **

_Yenn : So tell me now? Is it important?_

**Geralt : [image attached]**

**Geralt : So this is a thing.**

Yennefer’s name lights up his phone. Once he swipes _answer_ , he barely has any time to put the phone to his ear before Yennefer’s voice comes spilling through. “ _Geralt_!” she half-shouts, probably keeping her voice down for Ciri. She doesn’t sound angry, which soothes his tightened chest. But more horrifying than that, she sounds _delighted_. He can hear her smile worming through the phone. “When did this happen?”

Geralt looks to the office door. Just outside the glass panels, he watches Eskel, Lambert, and Coën all toy about with their jobs for the day. He hums. “Last night,” he says, looking down at his hand. It still shocks him that it’s there, the black band. It catches the light and he marvels at the subtle streaks of silver cracking through the black. Obsidian, he thinks.

Yennefer laughs. “That’s great, Geralt,” she says, more subdued now. She still sounds happy, and he’s tuned into it. It was a strange thought to pass his head that morning. Someone should probably tell Yennefer. And by someone, Jaskier looked at him in the way that told him that _he_ had to tell Yennefer. Nothing was left between them. Everything had died off a long time ago. They were friends now – parents to a beautiful little girl that they both cherished and marvelled at each day they spend with her. But they weren’t like Geralt and Jaskier. Any trace of that had been buried.

His chest is still tight. Thoughts flashed through his mind and vicious whispers ghosted along the shell of his ear. _What if she took the news badly? What if she actually hates Jaskier, and doesn’t want him in their lives in that way? What if—_

So Geralt clamped down on his tongue and before his mind could catch up with him, he had already typed out his texts, sent them, alongside a picture of his hand. And the ring.

In the background, he can hear the faint sounds of Ciri squealing and playing. His heart stutters.

“I doubt you’re thinking about wedding plans already,” Yenn says lightly, presumably leaning down to get something for Ciri if the slight squawk is anything to go by.

Geralt snorts. “Gods no. We’re just...We’ll sort it out later.” _Much later_.

Yenn hums. “Good. At least you know what you want from each other,” she says. Speaking to Yenn has always been easy. For all the bad blood that soured between them, he can’t imagine talking to anyone else about certain things. Maybe it was Ciri that mended the scars, fading them into nothing.

“Thank you for telling me,” Yenn says. “You didn’t have to.”

“I had to,” Geralt amends. He drums his fingers on the desk. “You’re...You’re still a part of my life and I didn’t feel right with keeping you an arm’s reach away.”

He can hear the cogs turning in her head. It takes her a moment to reply. “Are you planning on celebrating? Does anyone else know?”

“My brothers, my dad,” Geralt lists. “You.” He takes a steady breath. “I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it. Maybe.”

She would understand if they wanted to keep it to themselves for a bit. Anyone who knows now needed to know. Family members who needed to be asked permission and anyone so engrained in their lives that this would have affected. He’s sure that Jaskier is planning on telling his housemates at some point. But it’s only been a day since the ring slid on to his finger. So he _does_ want to keep it to themselves; just for now, at least.

Still, she hums. Something churning around in her mind. “That’s alright,” she says, as if planning something at this very moment.

“Yennefer.”

“Geralt.”

He sighs.

“I’m not going to paint it on billboards, Geralt, gods,” Yenn laments, as if she wanted to. “Would dinner work?”

“I’ll have to ask Jaskier.” And he’ll probably say yes, just because of promised free food.

Yennefer hums. “Good.” Ciri cries out in the background, nothing that has his heart leaping to his throat, but more of a demand for Yennefer to pay attention to her. He’ll have the girl for the weekend, freeing up Yenn’s time. And he can’t wait to fawn over the girl again. She’s getting bigger with every day he sees her, slowly working out what her arms and legs can do now that she has some control over them.

Geralt smiles. When he looks out into the garage, he spots more customers wandering in. A few of them are pointed Geralt’s way. “I’ll talk to you later about it, okay?”

Yennefer makes a sound. “Fine. But I _am_ spoiling you both.” And with that, she hangs up. Yennefer always gets the last word.

* * *

When Ciri arrives at their house, she’s almost instantly grappled into Lambert’s arms. “Thought you said you hated kids?” Geralt grumbles as he sets the girl’s bags into his room. He follows Lambert out into the living room, the man smiling and prodding Ciri’s chest with a finger. Ciri giggles, burying her face into his chest.

“I do,” he says lightly, expertly curling a supportive arm around Ciri and making sure her head rests on his shoulder. “But this kid is the exception.”

“Only because she smiled at you that one time,” Jaskier says, barely looking up from his book. He’s annexed the far corner of the living room, lounging in a nest of blankets and pillows to stave off the worst of the winter chill. Geralt strides over, silently picking up Jaskier’s legs to sit down. At the singer’s harrowing glare, he sets Jaskier’s legs back down on to his lap and sets about massaging his fingers into the man’s calves.

Lambert rolls his eyes. “It was her _first smile_. And she loves me, don’t you gremlin?” he pokes her side, laughing with her as she hides another giggle into his shoulder. She still looks around after a moment, confused as to where her father went. Once she spots him across the room, she reaches out with a grabbing hand. Lambert clicks his tongue. “Alright, alright, I see where your loyalties lie.”

“She’s _my_ kid,” Geralt says, taking her all the same. Ciri perches on Jaskier’s legs, happy to keep both of them pinned there for the time being. Without taking his eyes off of his book, Jaskier reaches down and runs the back of his finger along Ciri’s cheek. A broad smile stretches across and rounds Ciri’s cheeks.

Lambert waves his hand, wandering back towards his room to wait until dinner.

Eskel walks out of the kitchen armed only with a small bowl of mashed peaches and blueberries. A shelf of their fridge belongs to Ciri. Eskel spends entirely too much time coming up with prepared baby food, insisting that she’s not going to eat any of that _store-bought shit_. Handing over the bowl to Geralt, Eskel drops a small kiss on to the baby’s head. “As the princess requested,” he says, before heading back to check on dinner.

Geralt feeds Ciri as much as he’s able. It’s difficult to keep track of the baby and Jaskier’s legs still holding his lower half hostage. Ciri’s nose wrinkles slightly at how tart the mashed-up berries must be, but she munches on every spoonful Geralt brings to her lip. Eventually she fuses, “Alright, alright,” Geralt says, leaning to set the bowl on the table and sets Ciri against his shoulder. He’s already armed with a towel draped over himself, just in case. Too many black tees have been lost over the past couple of months. But he looks down at the legs lounging over his lap, and thinks it better that he stands up and spares Jaskier’s jeans the same fate as some of his shirts.

The second he moves, Jaskier whines. “Where are you going?” he arches an eyebrow, letting his legs dig down into Geralt’s thighs.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Unless you want to be covered in baby vomit, I suggest that you let me up.”

The decision is made in less than a second. Jaskier lets Geralt stand, retracting his legs back to his body just enough that Geralt can get up from the couch. Ciri squirms as they move, but he settles a hand onto her back and pats. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, starting to wander to the kitchen. With her fed, she might be able to have a quick nap while the rest of them have their dinner. The routine fell on to them so easily, he wonders what he ever did with his time before. Ciri lets him have a rhythm to his day. Ciri sleeps and wakes and eats and needs to be changed and bathed and then it all repeats itself.

Eskel grunts from his position at the oven. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes.” _So let your kid burp and possibly vomit, and put her to bed_.

Geralt nods, gently patting Ciri on the back. He wanders towards his room with her, knowing that by now, a few minutes later, that nothing is coming up so she’s probably okay. Getting her into her onesie for bed has been getting easier. Yennefer left him with a few options, but either or, Ciri lies most still as he wiggles her arms and legs into her pyjamas. 

It doesn’t take her long to start to yawn and grow heavy in his arms. “Naptime, hmm?” he rumbles, switching off the main lights but leaving a warm, glowing lamp on instead. Ciri buries her face into the hollow of his neck, already growing heavy.

Putting her down is easier, though he lingers. As soon as she’s set into her crib, he watches her for a moment. A soft frown crinkles her brow as she wonders where he’s gone, but it smoothes as sleep slowly laps over her. Her crib is lined with her favourite plushies, dutifully keeping watch alongside a baby monitor perched on his bedside table.

He lingers by the edge of her crib, watching her sink further.

His phone suddenly buzzes within his pocket. Fishing it out, he tries not to roll his eyes at the onslaught of messages from Yennefer.

_Yennefer : [images attached]_

_Yennefer : So you’re not doing anything in two weeks because I’m taking Ciri and you and your new fiancé are going here to have a wonderful meal, and I won’t hear anything about you being too busy or that I’m being too nice. You’re fucking going Geralt, end of. _

_Yennefer : You can thank me later x_

She’s insane. It’s a restaurant – a _nice_ restaurant in Cintra. One that he knows she’s been to, because the warm lighting and the chandelier hanging in the middle of the room and the pressed, white tablecloths are everything she adores. And he has a distant memory of her talking about it before. One of her friends works there as a sous chef.

Geralt rolls his eyes. A nice restaurant means nice clothes. And Jaskier will be able to cope, but Geralt. It’s more effort than it’s worth. But he has Yennefer holding a proverbial knife to his throat.

**Geralt : I’d rather die than go to Cintra, you know this. **

_Yennefer : Cool, so I’ve already made sure Sabrina knows to charge my card when you and the fiancé are done. So have as much as you want. _

**Geralt : Are you even getting any of these messages? Or are you just ignoring me?**

_Yennefer : If it’s new clothes you’re looking for then maybe Mousesack can help. I’ll call him. _

**Geralt : Please don’t.**

It’s deafeningly quiet after that. Yennefer’s icon pops up at the bottom of his screen but soon fades. She’ll plot and plan and he’ll have no say on the matter whatsoever. He sighs, something tired and weary. _Fine_ , he thinks stubbornly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff! To any of you doing Nanowrimo this year, I hope it's going well and that words are coming easy x 
> 
> I'm working on ending this fic soon; just trying to see what a good ending would be 😂


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was quite stumped on this chapter, friends! So I can only apologise for the long wait for this while I tried figuring out what was happening 😭
> 
> So have some Geraskier date night, Yennefer getting a date (oop!), and Geraskier + Ciri fluff as my apology x

Sabrina doesn’t want to kill him anymore, which is always a good thing. Even when he and Yennefer were together, the woman often settled him with unnerving, examining glances. His relationship with Yennefer lasted years, but when it started to fizzle, Sabrina’s ire only grew. It’s not that she didn’t like him. No one didn’t like him. She just didn’t like what was happening between him and Yennefer. It wasn’t good. Nothing good could come of it. The strain that started when they started drifting further apart – spending the first few weeks and months of their relationship entangled in each other, while in the last few weeks and months, they hardly ever saw each other at all. Life got in the way. Geralt had his own business to look after and Yennefer was climbing up a corporate ladder.

When they broke up, he was sure Sabrina Glevissig would be the one to put out the call for his head. He waited for her assassination attempt. But it never came.

He still stiffens when the golden glow of the restaurants lights fall over him. Jaskier looks around, a small smile ever curled along his lip. He makes idle chatter with the greeter to the front of the restaurant, mentioning Sabrina’s name. Within seconds, the waiter is leading them to a more secluded booth to the corner of the restaurant. Geralt can’t help but look around at every table he passes. They’re probably the youngest couple there, with everyone else at least a decade or two older. Men are armoured in suits while women’s dresses dazzle in the glow of the overhead lights; a constellation of crystals hanging from the room, glinting with light to look like stars.

He keeps close to Jaskier, with his heart settling for a moment when the man reaches behind him and palms his hand into his. Jaskier squeezes. _Are you alright?_

Geralt hums. It’s a low sound, one he doubts anyone else but Jaskier must have heard. _I will be_.

The waiter leaves them with their menus and glasses of water. He’s been to nice restaurants before. Yennefer’s work called for it. He had been dragged along to work dinners and staff parties. And he went, because it was important to her. Now, he looks around, he’s waiting for a familiar sight of a blond-haired woman to come storming out of the kitchen, a cleaver wielded in one hand.

A soft laugh slips out of Jaskier. “She wouldn’t have taken the booking if she wanted you dead,” he says lowly, running his eyes over the menu.

“Could be a perfect way to lure me out of Kaedwen,” Geralt rumbles, turning back to the other man. His chest tightens at the sight of his soft smile caught in the gentle glow of starlight overhead.

Jaskier just about manages not to laugh, hiding the worst of it behind a wide smile. “You’re silly,” he breathes.

There’s a soft hum of noise in the restaurant, no one conversation he can make out, but a gentle lull of noise. With the soft lighting and the warming smell of food floating out from the kitchens, it’s almost enough to lull the worst of his worry away. Though, Jaskier might be doing a better job of it. Geralt tries not to flinch at the man brushing his foot along Geralt’s leg, a gentle reminder that he’s only a short reach away; and potentially something waiting for him if the small lilt of Jaskier’s lips is anything to go by.

He looks good. Geralt’s nose flares at the familiar scent of cologne and hair products. Regarding the man’s hair, it looks soft and fluffy; and Geralt fights with himself to keep his hands where they are, and not reach out and card his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Again. It took them a while to leave. Jaskier has a particular scent that he knows Geralt likes. Most of the time spent post-shower and pre-getting dressed again was spent in Geralt’s room, with the man flush against Jaskier’s back and breathing in as much as he could of him. It was only until they were both dressed and practically pushed out of the apartment by Lambert did they manage to get anywhere.

The restaurant is far too nice for someone like him. He managed to find a pressed white shirt, some slacks and a blazer that somehow still fit him. It used to be the armour he would bring to any dining event with Yennefer. While she wore dazzling dresses and jumpsuits with plunging necklines, he just wanted to go as unnoticed at he could. A difficult thing to do when everyone insisted on introducing themselves to Yenn, and by proxy, him. It’s been years since he’s put anything nice on him, and it’s...strange. He doesn’t have the same clench in his stomach now as he once had. Even with a sizable crowd of people seated around him in their clusters, he doesn’t want to take his coat and run back to the safety of Kaedwen. Not when Jaskier is here, still smiling at him over the top of his menu.

Blue eyes leave him for a moment, glancing over his shoulder, and his brows knit together.

Geralt follows his gaze.

Sabrina crosses the restaurant’s floor in a matter of strides, weaving around the tables and guests. Some of them meet her eye and she greets them with small smiles. Dressed in her usual chef’s jacket, brilliant white shining through the gentle glow of the overhead lights. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of her, but he manages to stretch a smile across his lips.

“Geralt,” she says lowly as she draws close. The lull of her voice is familiar and it only strikes him then how long it’s been since they last spoke. If she did want to kill him, if she did have some plan in place, it certainly doesn’t show on her face. Especially in her eyes. Though, maybe the news of Ciri tempered the anger. Yennefer surely would have kept someone like Sabrina up to date with everything. The two of them, with Triss, were moulded together for most of their college years.

He doesn’t miss the way her eyes drop to his hand, regarding the band stretched around his finger. The metal scalds his skin and, for a brief moment, he wants to curl his fingers into a fist and drop it beneath the table just so people would stop looking at it.

But nothing comes of the stare. He doesn’t burst into flames. Not yet, anyway. He manages to swallow a lump forming in his throat. “Sabrina,” he mumbles, marvelling quietly at how steady he manages to keep his voice. She bends down to give him a light hug as a greeting. When she pulls away, he glances over to Jaskier.

Sabrina follows. “And this must be the fiancé,” she greets, walking over to hug him too. It’s...a lot. Geralt watches it all unfold and wonders idly where, at any point, did this all change. He suspects Yennefer had something to do with it. Maybe most of their phone call was convincing the other woman that she and Geralt were in fact _fine_ , that they had a beautiful daughter together and they knew where they stood with each other. Because the Sabrina that is in front of him now is not the same woman that would glare icy daggers at him whenever they were in the same room.

Jaskier, because he is who he is, makes idle conversation. It comes easier to him, like many things that require a single ounce of being social. Geralt doesn’t have any issue with stepping back at letting the other man take the reins with that. People seem to like him. A few even love him. How he managed to win over his entire family in an afternoon one winter’s day still surprises him. And here, Geralt watches Sabrina settle a hand on her chest and laugh lightly at something the man said.

Jaskier gestures to the restaurant. “So this place is yours?” A hint of marvel lilts through his voice.

The woman nods. “It is now, yes,” she nods, holding her hands in front of her. “I worked here as a line chef and worked my way up. Eventually the owner had to retire and he put my name forward to take over.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “And you’re still working in the kitchen?”

Sabrina’s smile is all teeth. “I’ll keep working in that kitchen until they have to take me out on a walking frame.”

The conversation is firmly kept to Jaskier’s side of the table. And that’s absolutely fine by Geralt. He takes a measured sip of his drink; water, since he drove them here and will be driving them home. He watches the man over the rim of his glass; watching at how easy it is for him, to smile and lure people in with conversation that spills out of his mouth.

When Sabrina turns back to him, her eyes drop to the menus sitting on the table. “Yenn already informed me on the plan for tonight,” she says, as if Geralt and Jaskier had any say whatsoever on this plan. She gestures to the menus. “Do you mind if I take them?” _Not that you’ll need them._

“We haven’t ordered just yet,” Jaskier replies, but gathers the menus all the same and hands them to her.

Sabrina waves dismissively. “Oh, forget about all of that: I’ll take care of you.”

Sabrina’s _taking care of them_ results in plates of expertly made food arriving at their table, without much consultation with them. As soon as they both shook their heads when she asked about any food allergies, she left; turning on her heel and striding back to the kitchen, ever the imposing figure in charge that she is. When Geralt looks back at Jaskier, the man arches an eyebrow. “So that’s Sabrina?” he asks lowly, maybe out of fear that she might hear him.

Geralt snorts. “Yeah.”

“I think I understand why you were so worried,” Jaskier replies gravelly.

He’s still tentative to touch any of the food. Yennefer explained again and again that she had it covered. It was her gift to them. And for the most part, Geralt can let his shoulders drop and enjoy the night. Jaskier seems to be doing so just fine as he takes a measured sip of sweet wine. But some small thing still stalks the back of his mind, whispering sour things against the shell of his ear. Something that he hasn’t managed to shake off, no matter how many times he darkens Nenneke’s doors, or assures himself that it’s been well over a year, very nearing two, and that everything is _fine_.

Jaskier meets his gaze over the rim of his wine glass. He sets it down, stretching his hand over the table. Geralt’s curls into it without even thinking about it. Jaskier’s thumb smoothes over his knuckles, lingering a moment over the ridge of the ring. In the gentle glow of the overhead lights, the ring catches a glare. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but there are specks of gold within the obsidian, sparkling back at him like stars.

He still needs to get Jaskier a ring, even though the man waved him off and said he didn’t need one. Jaskier smiled at him, when they were lounging on the man’s couch one evening, bellies full of a dinner Essi made and left alone in the living room. A movie drolled on in the background. Geralt had caught the man’s hand, entwining their fingers and turning it. Jaskier offered him a small smile, words rumbling out of him. _I’ll get a ring on the day we get married._

And the thought of it levels him. Even the black band ensnaring his finger, catching the light and being a distinct weight on his hand, doesn’t remind him about the fact that he’ll be _married_ at some point. It isn’t until Jaskier brings it up; because even though both of them have agreed that their wedding is some blurry thing in the horizon, nowhere in sight just yet, Jaskier still likes to bring it up. He likes calling Geralt his fiancé. He likes mentioning their _wedding_ and Geralt being his _husband_ , just to watch a small flush of colour settle over the man’s cheeks and warm him to his core.

They lounge in the dinner. Sabrina is an amazing cook, seeing to their meals personally. Seared seasoned scallops served in their shells, alongside a herbed butter sauce. Racks of lamb seared on the outside and blushing in the middle, practically falling off of their bones. The tang of lemon and oregano coats the roof of Geralt’s mouth as soon as the plate arrived at the table. Eventually, a dessert of raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake. It’s a single slice, but clearly big enough for the two of them. Geralt’s cheeks warm at the thought of Sabrina knowing exactly what she’s doing, sending out a dessert meant for the two of them to share. But Jaskier hands him a fork and smiles. It’s the kind of smile he likes on the other man. One that has his cheeks rounding and his eyes crinkling. He’s enjoying himself. A warm burrows and settles in the middle of Geralt’s chest. _Good_ , he thinks. _He deserves every moment of it._

He can’t bear to think of how much this would have cost if Yennefer hadn’t have stepped in. Even then, he can’t bear to think about how much this is costing _her_. He’s already promised her countless days and nights of solely looking after Ciri. If Yennefer wants a day or night or whole week to herself, no matter how busy Geralt might be, he’ll drop it all for her.

With the last of their plates cleared, Jaskier takes a moment to savour the last mouthful of wine. It will be a long time since they’ll be able to afford visits to places like this. Though, Geralt offers the waiter a courteous smile when he takes their plates, he would like Jaskier to have all of this and more.

Jaskier tilts his head. “You’ve got that look on your face,” he says slowly, setting his glass down and folding his arms. His gaze turns scrutinising. “What are you thinking about?”

Geralt can’t stop the small smile that tugs the corner of his lip. Jaskier has always been good at reading him. “Nothing,” he says simply. And Jaskier doesn’t buy it at all. He narrows his eyes and they almost bear into the depths of his soul. But he just hums, in that usual way he does when he knows Geralt is bullshitting him, but he doesn’t want to chase it up.

When they leave the restaurant, the city has somehow gotten colder. With winter rolling in quicker than expected, both of them made sure to take coats. Geralt bundles his around himself while Jaskier fiddles with his scarf, shuddering at a particularly harsh wind that whips through the street as soon as they step outside. Sabrina walks them as far as the door, giving them both a quick hug before they leave. Jaskier buries his nose into his scarf, hooking his arm through one of Geralt’s and plastering himself along the man’s side. Their car is nearby, so they won’t have to brave the cold for too long.

Geralt stuffs his hands into his pockets. At the slight jingle of his car keys, he turns to the other man. “Do you want to head home?” He doesn’t’ bother specifying where. Either his apartment or Jaskier’s house will do; both are home to them.

Jaskier arm tightens around his. “Actually,” he says, a slight lilt to his voice. Turning to look at him. Geralt notices a small smile curling his lips. “Can we go for a drive?”

They have the night, and the following morning, to themselves. Ciri will be with Yennefer until tomorrow evening, with the woman forcing a promise out of Geralt that she is _not_ to be contacted unless he or Jaskier is in mortal peril. And, glancing at his watch, it’s not even midnight yet. When he turns back to the other man, he’s met with fond eyes and a coy, lilting smile. Geralt’s heart almost skips a beat. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, we can.”

Jaskier’s smile turns brilliant. He leans up, pressing a chaste kiss to the ridge of Geralt’s jaw.

* * *

The question of where to go perched on his lip, but was swallowed instantly when Jaskier suggested that they go back towards Kaedwen. Even in the gentle orange glow of the lamps lining the streets, Geralt spots something mischievous brewing behind those eyes. Every so often, the more streets that they drive down, Jaskier’s grin only grows. When Geralt’s apartment building comes into view, Jaskier makes a small humming noise. “Keep going,” he says softly, pulling out his phone. The sharp bright light beams into his side of the car.

Geralt arches an eyebrow, but drives past his apartment building all the same.

“Can we go up to the hills?” Jaskier suddenly asks.

A moment’s pause sits between them for a moment. Geralt looks over at him, briefly, before turning his eyes back to the road. Warmth settles in the core of his chest. The hills of Kaedwen are where he used to bring Jaskier during their more difficult nights. In the first few stumbling days of them skirting around each other, when hours would blink by as they talked about everything and nothing at all, and when they would bare their souls to each other. Geralt swallows. “Yeah,” he rasps, clearing his throat.

The drive up is quiet. Jaskier, like always, spills music out of his phone. A gentle hum of noise in the background. But neither of them talk. They don’t need too. When they start cresting the last hill, pulling around to drive into a small alcove looking out on to the boroughs, Jaskier reaches across and settles his hand on to Geralt’s thigh. The man’s fingers scratch against the fabric of his pants, but nothing more than that. Geralt hums.

No one else would be mad enough to try and drive up here when it’s this cold. The hills are good walking spots during the day, but with so little sunlight in the winter, and the season only starting to get worse, most people keep their walks and hikes to the lower paths. Geralt parks the car a few meters away from the drop-off. Kaedwen sprawls out in front of them, and further beyond that, the other boroughs. The glow of lights stretches up into the horizon, staving off the worst of the night’s ink-black sky.

The hand on his thigh drifts inside his leg. Geralt has barely turned to arch an eyebrow at Jaskier before the other man has leaned over the console. He catches Geralt’s lips in a long, languid kiss. A kiss that has Geralt’s toes curling. He reaches up, setting his hand against the man’s cheek.

When they part, hooded blue eyes watch his lips. They’re numb and tingling, in that usual way they do whenever Jaskier kisses him. It could be a peck on the lips as a _hello_ or _goodbye_ , or one of the deeper ones shared in the privacy of their home; ones that leave them breathless and pulling at each other.

This kiss could very well be one of the latter.

A smile stretches through Jaskier’s lips. “I love you,” he whispers, leaning into Geralt’s hand on his cheek.

Geralt’s chest tightens. His breath catches in his throat any time those words come out of the other man. And he can say them so easily. When they’re lying in bed, curled around each other; when Jaskier cuddles against them on the couch. One time, all Geralt did was hand the man a glass of water, and he said it. Geralt had stood there, frozen, blinking, wondering just how easily things like that came to Jaskier. And all the other man did was turn and scamper back upstairs to finish his latest composition.

But now—

Geralt swallows. “I love you too,” he breathes, leaning forward to catch Jaskier’s lips again. The other man hums into it, leaning forward and clambering until Geralt finds himself pushed back against his seat and a familiar weight perched on top of him.

He breaks the kiss, arching an eyebrow at the man. “Seriously?” he huffs into a laugh as Jaskier turns his lips to the ridge of his cheekbone, peppering kisses all the way towards his ear. “If you wanted car sex, you could have just asked.”

Jaskier hides his smile against the man’s skin. At the first brush of his lips against Geralt’s neck, a shiver trembles through him. He’ll be the first to admit that they’re not in the most comfortable of positions and, even though neither of them is particularly old, they’re not young either. Jaskier can already feel his knee start to groan in protest, but he ignores it. He has Geralt’s hands catching his waist and moving him _just so_. A fissure of pleasure strikes through him when the other man grinds up into him.

Geralt’s hands move, if only to grab the lapels of his jacket. “Off,” he rasps, tugging at it.

It’s an uncoordinated series of movements to shed what they can. Jackets and coats and scarves mostly, with Jaskier pulling his blazer. Geralt’s own joins his in the pile of clothes tossed haphazardly to the backseat of the car. As soon as they’re out of eyesight, they’re long forgotten about.

Geralt looks down as nimble fingers undo the buttons of his shirt. Jaskier is pressed close to him, with not much space between them at all. As soon as the lapels of his shirt are open, the man sets his hands on to any stretch of skin he can find. “You look good,” Jaskier marvels, letting his hands drift over Geralt’s shoulders and down his chest.

Geralt’s hands settle on to the man’s hips, keeping him anchored against him. Geralt hums; one that rumbles out of the centre of his chest. He leans up and lures another long and languid kiss out of the other man. Each kiss leaves him breathless and his chest tight and the tips of his fingers numb and tingling.

He gasps against Jaskier’s lips at the first roll of the man’s hips. When he opens his eyes, even through the dim lighting only offered by one lamp perched nearby at the edge of the overhang, he can see how the man’s smirk has grown into something lecherous.

Jaskier knows how to play his body, luring the right kind of sounds out of him with gentle touches and sure words. And when he’s like this, flush-cheeked and mischievous, Geralt is lost. His arms wind around Jaskier’s hips, pulling him closer. He almost thrills at the noise lured out of Jaskier’s throat. The man’s arms loosely loop around his shoulders, hanging on. If he could keep the man this close to him for the rest of their lives, he would die happy. How he managed to get this far in life without Jaskier baffles him. He feels like he’s known the man his entire life, with how easily he has found a place for himself within Geralt’s family. He’s a part of that now.

Jaskier dips for another kiss, lounging into another, and again, until every trace of breath is stolen from the both of them. His hips grind own against Geralt’s. Geralt’s breath hitches at the thrum of pleasure that worms through him at the feeling of his hardening cock against the cleft of Jaskier’s ass. The other man is unforgiving; ducking down just enough to press light kisses along the ridge of his jaw.

Geralt’s head falls back against the headrest, his breath already starting to thin. Sure, rhythmic rolls of Jaskier’s hips have him lost. His cock hardens in his slacks, already aching and

He manages to slide his hand into the back of Jaskier’s pants, slipping down just enough to skim a finger against his hole. It’s dry, but the gentle graze is enough for a shiver to tremble up Jaskier’s spine. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, tightening his hold on Geralt’s shoulders. Their hips roll together as Geralt plays with him. It’s nothing more than a brush against Jaskier’s rim, but enough so that the man’s breath is hitching. They know each other’s bodies so well that it doesn’t take a lot for them to lure each other to the edge.

In a perfect world, they would have lube stored somewhere in the car. Geralt makes a mental note of it, just in case Jaskier has any more places within the boroughs he would like to fuck Geralt in. But for now, he draws the man into a firm and scorching kiss as the coil in his core begins to tighten. Each roll of his hips is sure and firm, edging Jaskier closer.

The hand on Jaskier’s hips tightens. The drive home will be quick. He’s already half-plotting the fastest way home. As soon as he’s in his apartment, he’ll take Jaskier apart properly. But now, while they’re up here and by themselves, the deepest and filthiest sounds are pulled from both of them.

Jaskier leans back, catching Geralt’s face and pulling him into a deep kiss. It’s long and languid and has his toes curling. Those hands move, darting down to the front of his slacks. Deft fingers work open his belt and buttons, just enough for Jaskier to slip a hand inside. Geralt grunts at the familiar fingers that wrap around his cock, just tight enough to lure a choked-off groan out of the man’s throat. Jaskier’s hands are dangerous things, knowing just how to play with him. He rolls his hips up, fucking into Jaskier’s grip.

Equally dangerous lips set against the shell of his ear. Geralt can feel them pulling into a coy smirk. “That’s it,” he murmurs, hot breath blooming warmth against the side of Geralt’s face, “take what you need.”

Jaskier manages to lead him so close to the end with strategic touches and words. He knows how to play Geralt’s body and he does it so well. Even now, Geralt’s hips lift and chasing down the tight ring of Jaskier’s hand – dry, but warm and firm, and something that will just take the edge off.

Because he’s certain that this won’t be the last of it.

And Jaskier huffs a laugh. “We’ll go home,” he lulls, tightening his grip on Geralt. He knows he’s close. He can feel it in how his hips stutter and his breath begins to catch. “And I’ll get you into bed, and take you apart properly. Would you like that, darling? Do you want to be inside of me?”

He really doesn’t care. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, focusing. He _really_ doesn’t care as long as he gets to come—

“You’re leaking all over my hand, darling,” Jaskier huffs a light laugh. It slickens the way. “I’ll make sure to get myself all open and wet for you quickly, then. Seeing how desperate you are already.”

Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. “If you had— _fuck_ —If you had been organised,” he gasps, “we could be fucking now.”

Jaskier giggles. The hold on Geralt’s cock tightens and quickens. He adds a twist to the movement, knowing just how to lure Geralt closer and closer until—

It washes over him, lapping in waves, stealing his breath. Jaskier’s voice is warm and murmured against his ear, luring out everything he can. For a moment, Geralt can’t breathe. He presses his head back into the headrest and let everything wash over him for a moment, almost suffocating and drowning.

Gentle kisses press along the ridge of his jaw. “When you’re lucid again,” Jaskier rumbles, already making to move out of his lap, “I need you to get us home like right _now_. We have things to do.”

He can’t remember the drive home, or the rush to park and clamber to the elevator towards their floor. But the rest of the night is lost to giggling kisses and shared moans, wandering hands and sure touches. It's the best night he's had in a long time. 

* * *

Ciri is talkative. Or, as talkative as a seven-month-old baby can be.

She babbles, holding serious conversations with Jaskier whenever they’re at home. Geralt watches and listens in, his throat bobbing with every swallowed laugh at the sound of Jaskier sagely agreeing with whatever Ciri has to say. “Ah yes, an excellent point,” Jaskier hums, cradling the baby to his chest while they watch some cartoon on his laptop. “How could a lion and a bear be best friends? They don’t even live in the same place.”

His guitar sits beside him, alongside long-forgotten about notebooks. Ever since Ciri has learned how to flop over on to her stomach, and got the hand of wiggling about so much that she starts to move, she’s drawn to the man anytime he starts to strum a few chords. Not a lot of song-writing has been done in the last few days. And Geralt feels mildly bad about it. He knows the other man has to get some work done. He fled his own apartment because Essi and Shani were being too loud. But he came over with the knowledge that a babbling baby was here, so that’s a hill he’s just going to have to die on.

Geralt finishes up the last of their lunch. Sandwiches for them and some scrambled eggs and soft toast for Ciri. Yennefer texted him with what solids she’s been eating at her house, and they’re both keen to expand the list. So far, she hates strawberries and lentils with a passion; much to Yennefer’s dismay.

He pads out into the living room, not bothering to quell the small smile that curls along his lip at the sight of his fiancé and his daughter having a serious, in-depth discussion about cartoons. He sets the food down on to the coffee table. “So,” he says, “what’s the review of _Zac and Louis_?”

“It’s alright. Some very inconsistent storytelling and world-building, though,” Jaskier hums, feeding Ciri before himself. She tries to reach out and grab at the spoon. She’s been getting good at controlling her arms and legs, not kicking out anymore and flailing her arms about. But she does insist on helping navigate the spoon for lunch. Jaskier lets her, as long as she doesn’t rip it from his hand and send it flying across the couch – because that has happened before.

Geralt reaches out, tickling the bottom of Ciri’s foot. She squeaks, kicking out at him. “And she agrees?” he asks, grabbing at her big toe. She kicks into his hand.

“Of course,” Jaskier nods. “We have quite the to-watch list on our hands. Lambert offered up some recommendations.”

And that earns a quirked eyebrow. Lambert, the man who didn’t even want to hold Geralt’s kid, who hates kids in general, and who watches an absurd amount of gory horror films, recommending children’s shows. Geralt almost choked on his water the first time he saw Lambert and Ciri watching the TV together. He had hoped, prayed to every god he could remember the name of, that it wasn’t one of Lambert’s usual watches of some chainsaw-wielding serial killer. Instead, he was floored to see Ciri idly chewing on the ear of her stuffed bear, Lambert picking at the last of his dinner, and them watching some cartoon about a space adventurer together.

He really wishes he had his phone on him, just to have some physical form of blackmail. But the image is committed to memory. And it’s an image he cherishes.

Ciri eats without much fuss. The days of her grumbling about anything put in front of her seem to be behind them. Or else Jaskier has some special baby-feeding power. When he offers her a small piece of toast, she grabs at it and mashes it into her mouth. Jaskier chuckles.

“I can take her, if you want?” Geralt nods to the guitar and splayed notebooks. Jaskier’s pen still sits comfortably in the spine of the book. “I know you came here to work.”

Jaskier shrugs a shoulder. “It’s alright, I knew what would happen when I came here.” He bounces her lightly, earning a small giggle out of her. With her own lunch done, he reaches out and plucks a sandwich from the plate. He just about manages to keep it out of Ciri’s inquisitive and grabbing hands. “Besides, this is much more fun than listening to Essi and Shani argue about projects for work.”

Geralt hums. There was a time when Ciri spent most of her day swaddled by either him or Yennefer. Even when they came home from the hospital with her, on those first few shaky days, they were loath to put her down. They had to, eventually, knowing that it wouldn’t do her any good to be constantly swaddled against one of them. But she always nestled into their chests and curled her hands into their shirts, hanging on. Seeing her sit so comfortably against Jaskier, watching him intently as he eats his own lunch, it’s odd. It’s nice, and it swells his heart so much he thinks it might just burst. And it seems right.

When they’re lunch is done, Jaskier types out the name of a new cartoon and they sit back to watch it. He gives Ciri back her stuffed bear – thrown away at the moment she spotted Geralt coming with food. She cuddles it against her chest and she lies back against Jaskier, her attention wholly focused on the screen.

Geralt smiles. Peaceful moments like these were so hard to come by before, and now they’re everywhere. When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he stands. Neither Jaskier nor Ciri even notice him moving away.

Geralt fishes his phone out of his pocket, frowning when Yennefer’s name pops up on the screen. “Hey,” he says lowly, sheltering himself into the kitchen. He eyes the clock ticking on the nearby wall. It’s midday. Yennefer never calls him from work, unless it’s an emergency.

“Hey,” Yennefer replies. In the background, he can distantly make out people chattering and machines buzzing. She’s in the office, he presumes. All at once, a door clicks shut and the noises cease. “I’m sorry to call you about it now, but do you think you can take Ciri for tonight?”

What she did for them still hangs over him. He’d do anything for her. She knows that. Even before she celebrated his engagement to someone else with a night out at her expense. “Sure,” he replies. He puts the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, keeping his hands busy so that they don’t fidget. “For tonight and tomorrow?” Because he’s certain that she has work tomorrow too.

Yennefer hums. “Something came up last minute.”

“A work thing?”

The pause is long and deafening. “Maybe.”

“Maybe not,” he lilts, because he likes poking her. His smile only grows at the frustrated huff that comes down the phone.

“Geralt Rivia, just—” She lowers her voice. Someone must be passing her office. “Fine. Do you know Istredd? He works in general operations.”

He really should know Istredd. But after meeting so many of Yennefer’s colleagues, most of them in passing as he tried to keep to himself at work gatherings and parties, names and faces start to blur together after a while. The long stretch of silence on his end of the line tells Yennefer all she needs to know. “You don’t remember, fine. He’s a manager in operations, he works downstairs. He asked me out for a drink.”

“Just now?” It’s not like her to take up plans last minute.

“No, no,” she sighs, “he asked last week but I completely forgot.” _I’m busy_ sits on the tip of her tongue.

Geralt hums, musing. Though he already has his answer ready to go. “Of course I’ll take Ciri,” he murmurs, looking out into the living room. Ciri squawks a delighted laugh at something on the laptop’s screen. Jaskier just about manages to quell a giggle, burying it into the downy blonde hair wisping the top of her head.

Yennefer takes a measured breath. “Thanks,” she mutters. He can imagine her now, probably pinching the bridge of her nose to stave off a headache.

“Enjoy your date,” he lilts.

“It’s not a date,” Yennefer counters. “It’s a drink.”

“A drink is a date.”

“Since when?”

“We’ve been broken up for two years, not twenty. The dating scene hasn’t changed that much in that time.”

She makes a quiet sound on the other end of the line. Distantly, Geralt can hear her office door clicking open and a murmured voice drifting in. “Yes, yes, I’ll be with them in a moment,” Yennefer sighs.

Geralt can’t stop the low huff of laughter that escapes him. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he rumbles, watching the scene in the living room. Two bags of Ciri’s stuff have a permanent residence in Geralt’s room, alongside her crib and playmat. Having her stay over unexpectedly isn’t a problem; he already has everything he needs.

Yennefer hums. “Okay, thanks,” she breathes, “I appreciate it.”

When the call drops, Geralt stays in the kitchen for a moment. A new conversation has struck up between his daughter and his fiancé. Ciri babbles about something, waving a chubby, balled-up fist at the laptop screen while Jaskier follows, nodding sagely. “Ah, I see,” he says. “Personally, I love the use of this particular metre. It forms a good rhythm to the song about mealtime manners; something you know nothing of, young lady.”

Ciri mumbles, clutching her teddy bear to her.

“I’m sorry, but it had to be said,” Jaskier replies, brushing the back of his knuckle along the corner of Ciri’s lip. Some bits of mushed toast remain. “Honestly, Cirilla, we have to work on your manners. I don’t care if you’re only seven months old. It doesn’t mean you can act like an animal.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. He really shouldn’t have told any of them that talking back to Ciri when she babbles will help her cognitive growth. Ever since then, he’s walked in on some bizarre conversations – whether it’s Jaskier explaining the differences between iambic tetrameter and iambic pentameter, Lambert offering a running commentary of some movie he’s watching, or Eskel explaining the different and necessary steps in making the perfect bolognaise.

When he steps back into the living room, smiling softly at the sight in front of him, Jaskier stretches out an arm. A simple invitation to join them on the couch. He doesn’t have anything to do today. Coën offered to look after the garage’s office for him today, just as long as he gets time to play with Roach. The dog, now that he notices, is sprawled out on her bed nearby, snoring contently as the day just passes. He’ll have to take her on a walk at some point, but right now, watching how her chest fills and falls steadily, and her back leg twitches as she dreams, he’s happy to leave her for a moment.

Geralt sits beside the other man, humming as his arm winds around Geralt’s shoulders and gently pulls him into his side. Ciri hardly notices as she’s held rapt by the cartoon playing on Jaskier’s laptop. Trying to pull her away might be a challenge. But he’ll deal with that when they come to it. For now, he burrows further into Jaskier’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra-long chapter to apologise again for the wait x


	28. Chapter 28

It’s not fair to say that Ciri has ruined his sleep schedule. To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure he even had one. In the months before he knew about her, when he was still reeling from his breakup with Yennefer, most of his days were lost to lounging in bed. Sometimes sleep came for him, and it put down a few hours, carrying him over into the next day. That’s how weeks managed to slip by.

And ever since Ciri was born, he’s struggled to keep the last niggling thoughts out of his head. He doesn’t venture too far down, always just a soft cry away from waking up. Ciri’s crib is pushed against his side of the bed, close enough that he can keep her close. Even on the nights Jaskier stays over, and both of them are so tired that their bones groan and their joints and muscles protest the short walk from the living room to Geralt’s bedroom, Geralt can never manage to venture too far down into sleep.

He surfaces just enough to make out his surroundings. He’s at home, in his own bed, with Jaskier close by. The other man is plastered against his back, an arm loosely slung around his waist and keeping him near. He can feel each puff of exhaled breath as Jaskier nuzzles further into the back of Geralt’s neck, making a soft noise at the slight change in Geralt’s breathing. Because when Geralt wakes up, Jaskier isn’t too far behind. The man likes sleeping. He would sleep throughout the day if Geralt let him. And he’s been tempted to let him.

But any time Geralt moves too far away, Jaskier’s hold on him tightens, and some protesting whines and grumbles slip out of the man’s lip.

He reaches up, scrubbing the last few specks of sleep from his eyes. There’s just enough light from streetlamps outside to make out the edges of furniture and the end of his bed. Jaskier still dozes behind him, cuddled closely against Geralt’s back.

And then he hears it; a sneeze.

He manages to worm out of Jaskier’s grasp just enough to peer over the edge of Ciri’s crib. Inside, still sprawled out, but wide-awake, is the baby, her face screwed up and pinched as she sneezes again. She whimpers.

Geralt winces. “Alright, alright,” he whispers, mindful of the dozing man behind him. He reaches into the crib, pulling Ciri out. She whimpers and grumbles as she’s moved, but as soon as Geralt lies back in bed, propped up slightly against the pillows pushed against the headboard of the bed, she quietens. She burrows herself against his chest, her tiny chubby hand curling a fistful of fabric and holding on.

Babies get sick. It’s something he has had to tell himself over and over again throughout Ciri’s life so far. And he suspects he’s going to have to keep the mantra going as she gets older. Babies pick up all sorts of things; sniffles and coughs and colds. She’s already battled a chest infection that landed her in a hospital – something Geralt thinks he’ll never be able to forget – and over the past couple of weeks where the weather has taken a turn for the worst, she’s been getting sniffly and grumpy.

She almost convulses with another sneeze. Any of her whimpers and cries, she buries them against Geralt’s chest and into his shirt. Most of his sleep-shirts have either been cried or vomited on at some point, and he can’t bring himself to care at all. Even now, with Ciri sleeping more and more hours at night, he still finds himself having to pick her up and feed her – and sometimes, she just needs to cry about something or other.

Jaskier shuffles beside him, burrowing himself into Geralt’s side. After a moment, after Ciri sniffles against Geralt’s chest and huffs a not-very-pleased sound, Jaskier lifts his head. His eyes barely manage to stay open and his hair is soft and sticks out at all angles. Geralt’s chest tightens. He dips down, dusting a chaste kiss against Jaskier’s forehead. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, nudging him.

Jaskier loosens a long, languid sigh, but stays awake. He rubs the last of sleep from his eyes and lies back against the pillows, blearily blinking up at Geralt and the baby. “Wha’s wrong?” he mumbles through a yawn.

Ciri sways between staying awake and falling back to sleep. Geralt’s hand covers her whole back. She’s still so small, resting against him, that it takes his breath away. Even though she’s grown out of most of her things already, and she’ll be grown out of her crib soon now that he thinks about it, she’s still small to him. He lightly brushes his fingertips over her back, luring her back to sleep. “She was sneezing,” he rumbles.

Jaskier’s brows knit together. “Poor baby,” he sighs, his eyelids slowly drooping closed again. It’s still dark outside, but gods only know how early it is. The further into winter they go, the longer the nights stretch out. It could be late at night or early in the morning. He has no idea. But with how easily sleep manages to lure Jaskier back under, he can only assume it’s late.

Ciri fusses against him. When he brushes the back of his finger against her forehead, curling some wisps of her hair from her face, and almost lurches back at how scalding her skin is. He looks down at her. Even through the dim lighting reaching in through the window, he can faintly make out a flush colouring her cheeks. She’s been teething for the past month, with her earning more teeth with every week that passes. But this is different. This isn’t the usual flush of colour on her cheeks and general grumpiness she has in the mornings whenever a new tooth breaks through.

Geralt sits up, cradling Ciri against him as he slips out of bed. Jaskier barely budges, but his frown does deepen. Geralt puts the bedsheets back. Hopefully they’ll be warm enough to lull him back to sleep. Geralt pads out of the room with Ciri, aiming for the kitchen. He grabs his phone from the nightstand, taking a quick look at the time. It’s three in the morning. Not great, but not awful either. He’s been up earlier with Ciri, and sometimes up throughout the night.

She fusses as he walks them to the kitchen, not at all happy about being up this early. _Me neither, princess_ , he thinks, looking down at her. When he flicks on the lights, he gets a better look at the colour of her skin. It’s flushed and red, but not spotty. And he can take a steady breath. _Kids get sick_. But he isn’t ready for the day she’ll catch chickenpox or the flu or anything else that he can’t help her with. He brushes the back of his finger along her cheek. Her skin is still warm, slightly damp with sweat.

It’s probably a cold. Geralt clicks his tongue, gently rocking her. “And you seemed so fine earlier,” he laments, setting about pulling a bottle together. She’s been taking less and less of them in the past few weeks, with her actually liking all of the mashed up solid food Eskel makes for her. They’ve even sent boxes of the stuff over to Yennefer’s apartment, mainly because she’s too busy to make the food herself, and over Eskel’s dead body would they try and feed his niece anything from a store.

Her fussing seems to stop as soon as she starts drinking, but her skin is too red and flushed for his liking. It’s going to be a long night. He’s already mourned another night of sleep lost. Roach patters into the kitchen, blinking against the sudden lights disturbing her. Geralt sends her the most apologetic look he can. “I’m sorry, girl,” he rumbles.

Roach huffs, but her tail still lazily swings from side to side. She sticks by him, peering up at the baby in his arms. When Ciri can’t drink anymore, he puts everything away and perches her against his shoulder. An unrecognisable tune lulls out of him, a gentle hum that’s often enough to lure Ciri back to sleep. She grumbles and hiccups, and manages another all-body sneeze, but she settles.

His ears twitch at the sound of soft footfalls behind him. Before he can turn around, familiar warm hands coil around his waist, pulling him back against a firm chest. “Is she okay?” Jaskier mumbles as he hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. Ciri blinks up at him and reaches up, thankful for another familiar face joining them in the early hours. Jaskier reaches down and lets her coil her hand around his finger, hanging on to and tugging it. Her eyelids are beginning to droop again, with her mouth stretched out in a yawn.

Geralt hums. “I think she has a cold,” he murmurs, gently swaying them. None of them might be thrilled at being awake this late at night, but these quieter moments are the ones that Geralt treasures. Both Jaskier and Ciri stitched his life back together; and he can’t thank either of them enough for that.

Ciri eventually falls back to sleep, with the hold she has on his shirt beginning to loosen. She’s still warm, and he’ll have to keep an eye on her, but she looks slightly better.

Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s covered shoulder. “I’ll call the doctor in the morning,” he whispers. His hand gently catches Geralt’s elbow. “Come back to bed. She’ll sleep for a few hours.”

It’s wishful thinking. Another sneeze, or a cough, might wake her back up within a few minutes, and gods only know if she’ll go back to sleep. But for now, he lets himself hang on to the thought that he can salvage the night and get some sleep before the sun rises.

Jaskier leads them back to his bedroom, turning off lights as they pass. Nails click on the hardwood floor, and Geralt has to huff a small laugh at the sight of Roach following them. She keeps to herself most days, and even gave up her nest at the foot of Geralt’s bed ever since Jaskier started sleeping over, but whenever Ciri cries, or whenever Ciri is upset and fussy, the dog is there and alert. He doesn’t think she’d be able to go back to sleep until she knows Ciri is okay.

Jaskier pets the foot of the bed. “Come on, Roachie,” he mumbles. Roach hops up, tail wagging, and she buries herself into a nest at the foot of the bed, right between where Geralt and Jaskier will lie. Her ears prick at the gentle huffing from Ciri. She’s asleep, but her chest is a bit wheezy. Geralt frowns. He’ll definitely bring her to the doctor tomorrow, just to be sure. Memories of her being lain in a hospital bed flash in front of him.

Jaskier lures him back into bed, just as Ciri stretches out in her cot. “She’ll be fine,” he mumbles, curling back around the other man. “It’s probably just a cold.”

* * *

Ciri’s doctor is Yennefer’s. Having the one person care for both of them just makes it easier when trying to track back against files from before. Aedirn does better in winter than the northern boroughs, with the frost already salted from the roads and pavements. He keeps an eye on the baby in the backseat. She’s blissfully unaware of the worry he has for her, of course. She coos and watches the world pass through a mirror fitted above her chair, just so she can look out on to the streets. With her bear cuddled to her chest, she hasn’t a worry in the world.

Geralt sighs. _Babies get sick. This is literally fine_.

He gets out of the car and fishes Ciri out of her car seat. She isn’t too happy about it, clinging on to her bear and mumbling protests into the back of its head, but he grabs her blanket and swaddles it around her. “The lady is just going to look at your nose,” he rumbles quietly, getting everything he needs before shutting the car door.

He doesn’t like spending much time in Aedirn. It’s a world away from Kaedwen; where Aedirn is towering skyscrapers and busy streets, all lit in dazzling lights and neatly tended to trees, Kaedwen is more industrial and greyscale and quiet. He doesn’t like the noise of Aedirn. Even on the short walk into the doctor’s office, he winces at people nattering down their phones or to each other about something or other. He holds Ciri closer. She’s an anchor.

The doctor, thank the gods, waves him in as soon as he steps inside. When her eyes fall on to the bundle gathered against him, she breaks out in a bright smile. “Hello little Ciri,” she cranes her head around to get a good look at the baby. Ciri might like familiar faces – especially of her uncles – but seeing the doctor, and what she means, she burrows into Geralt’s chest. The doctor winces. “I know, I’m mean. But let’s get you seen to.”

Her office isn’t as glaringly bright as others. The walls are painted in some muted blue, while a window looks out on to a nearby park. When he sits down on one of her hard plastic chairs, Ciri clutches to him, wary of the strange woman who’s known to jab her with needles. He settles a hand on to her back, rubbing up and down.

“Right,” the doctor breathes, pulling up Ciri’s chart on the computer, “what’s up with little Cirilla today?”

Ciri squirms against him. She’s not entirely fond of being talked about. “I think she has a cold,” he says, rocking her gently. “She was sneezing a lot last night and had a bit of a fever.”

The doctor nods. She gestures to the blanketed bundle on Geralt’s lap. “Can I take a look?”

“Sure.”

Divesting Ciri of her blanket is almost a war crime. She grumbles and whines as soon as Geralt pulls it away from her. “It’s alright,” he hushes, “you can have it back in a minute.” But he doesn’t like the way she shivers. Some colour still clings to her cheek, warmer than he’d like.

He can’t stop staring at her. Even when the doctor rolls her chair over to his side, gently reaching out to set the back of her hand against Ciri’s forehead, he struggles not to curl her back against him. Ciri whimpers and clutches her bear tighter, and she’s most certainly not impressed when the doctor shines a light into her eyes and up her nose.

The doctor glances up, regarding Geralt for a moment. “It’s important for Dad to breathe,” she says slowly, turning her attention back to Ciri.

It’s only then does Geralt realise he’s stopped breathing entirely. He draws in a harsh breath, but one that fills and stings his lungs. Yennefer should be here, doing this. She’s calmer. She’s better at dealing with these kinds of things. She’ll worry in her own way, but it’s nothing like the cold feeling trying to settle into Geralt’s veins now.

His tongue sits heavily in his throat. “My brother was sick a lot as a baby,” he says lowly. “He’s fine now but...just, a lot of memories.”

The doctor sends him an apologetic look. “It’s completely natural to be worried for your baby,” she lulls, “especially as she’s so young.” She pulls back from Ciri after a while, nodding mostly to herself. She’s calmer than other doctors he’s spoken to about Ciri. He remembers their time at the hospital as if it were yesterday. He can still see the slightly concerned looks on nurses faces when they came in to check on the baby stretched out in the bed. Even though they spoke to both him and Yennefer with calm voices and assured tones, he’s certain that they were just waiting for her to get sicker again.

The doctor returns to her side of the desk, typing something out on to Ciri’s file. She scribbles on a piece of paper. “She should feel a lot better with fluids and rest,” she says, “but she has some crackling in her chest. She might have a small chest infection, but nothing like last time. Here are some antibiotics she has to take. Other than that, just make sure she sleeps and eats what she can.”

And he looks down at his watch. It’s only been a few minutes. He coils Ciri’s blanket back around her and she almost slumps into him, the last of her fussing whimpers trailing off at being warm again. He swaddles her close as the doctor hands him the prescription. “Okay,” he breathes, “thank you.”

The doctor nods. “Come back in a week and we’ll see how she’s doing.” She turns to the baby trying to bury herself into Geralt’s chest. “Bye Ciri!”

The last thing Ciri manages as they leave is to utter a protesting babble. Geralt tries not to smile. She hates the doctor’s office so much, and he can’t blame her at all. Lambert hated it when he was a baby, and he hates it now. Even when he’s lured into appointments to check on things, he’ll put it off until Vesemir appears at their door one day and hauls him by the back of the neck to the doctor’s office.

Geralt presses a light kiss to the crown of Ciri’s head. Stepping back out into Aedirn is an assault on the senses. It’s loud and bright and nothing like he’s used to. As quickly as he can, he brings them back to the car. Ciri fusses a little when he tries to put her back into her car seat. He clicks his tongue. “Hey, hey,” he says, setting her down and giving her the bear toy back after it slips away, “we’re going home now, alright? I just got to text your mum. Is that okay? She’ll be worried.”

Ciri mumbles something that he’ll take as a _fine_. He isn’t looking forward to her being a teenager, with all the attitude she’s already giving him as a seven-month-old baby already. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and catches Yennefer up on what’s been going on, only because she’s been blowing up his phone ever since this morning, when he made the mistake of telling her that Ciri had been up all night.

**Geralt : A chest infection, but nothing too bad. Not like last time. **

The woman’s reply is instant.

_Yennefer : Poor baby. Does she have antibiotics?_

**Geralt : I’m picking them up from the pharmacy now. She needs rest and fluids. **

_Yennefer : Okay. Do you want me to take her tonight?_

**Geralt : I still owe you for dinner. If you want to have her, I can drop her over. But she won’t be doing much I imagine. She’s already asleep. Very exhausting stuff; having a doctor shine lights at you _._**

_Yennefer : I can imagine :( _

_Yennefer : If she’s happy at yours then I don’t want to move her. She’ll just be too stressed out here, wanting to play with things. _

**Geralt : I’ll keep you posted.**

* * *

Ciri sleeps. Ciri sleeps anyway, on most nights. When she’s put down for naps, she has this ability to switch off from the world and let it burn while she sinks into sleep. Anything could be going on in the world outside, but it’s none of her concern. As soon as he manages to get her to take a spoonful of liquid antibiotic, wincing with her at the taste, she’s heavy against his shoulder and her hold on her stuffed bear starts to slip.

Jaskier watches him take his hundredth lap of the living room and kitchen, gently rocking Ciri further and further down into sleep. She has a lot of it to catch up on. Jaskier turns his attention back to his laptop. The only sounds breaking through the quiet of the apartment are the clattering of keys as he types something out. A song, maybe. His guitar sits nearby while the coffee table in front of him littered with splayed open notebooks and stray sheets of paper.

As soon as Ciri puffs rhythmic breaths against him, he peers at her. She’s asleep, her brow finally eased of its usual frown and her mouth open slightly. Every second breath is slightly wheezy, but the antibiotics should help.

He makes sure his bedroom is dim enough for her. The days, now that winter has settled in, are dark enough anyways, but he pulls the curtains across just in case. He rocks her a few more times, ensuring that she _is_ asleep and won’t wake up grumbling when he sets her down. Her cot is already littered with a kicked down blanket pooling at the bottom and some stuffed animals Lambert and Eskel insist on buying her. They’ll keep guard of her while he’s gone.

She barely twitches when she’s lain down, sighing slightly and lulled back down into a deep sleep. Geralt gently brushes wisps of blonde hair back from her face. She’ll be down for an hour, at most. And his bones and muscles protest standing up any longer.

He can’t get back to the living room fast enough.

Jaskier lifts his gaze from his laptop, huffing a small laugh as he sees shadows starting to settle underneath Geralt’s eyes. He pats the cushion beside him. “Come on, darling,” he lulls. Geralt shuffles over.

Jaskier puts away his laptop and guitar and tugs Geralt down against him, quick to coil arms around his shoulder and keep him hostage. A gentle kiss gets pressed to his forehead. “Are you okay?” the singer mumbles against Geralt’s skin.

Geralt sighs, all but sinking into Jaskier’s hold. “Yeah,” he rumbles. The day catches up with him then, luring the last of his energy out of him. The trek to his room is too long. Even thinking about it is too much. So he burrows into Jaskier’s side, resting his head on the man’s chest and letting sleep slowly lull over him. He knows that if Ciri made a sound, Jaskier would wake him. Or else he would go and investigate himself.

His eyelids are already drooping and heavy, and every attempt he makes to keep them open just stings his eyes. He winds an arm around Jaskier’s middle, cuddling him close. Blearily, he can make out Jaskier’s laptop screen. He frowns at the man’s emails brought up. “What are you doin’?” he rumbles through a yawn.

Familiar fingers card through his hair, gently combing it back from his face. “Just replying to some people. Don’t worry about it,” Jaskier hums, trailing kisses along Geralt’s temple and cheeks. Geralt slumps, ending up strewn across Jaskier’s lap more than anything. With his head pillowed on the man’s thighs, Jaskier smiles down at him, gently combing through his hair. “Get some sleep,” he whispers.

It doesn’t take a lot to lure him down. As soon as the words are out of Jaskier’s mouth, Geralt can feel sleep starting to wash over him and lure him under.

* * *

Jaskier hums a quiet tune underneath his breath, combing through Geralt’s hair and letting the man grow heavier and heavier as he sinks further down into sleep. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to let himself go that deep down. Jaskier perches a foot on the coffee table, cradling Geralt’s head in his lap. The other man barely twitches.

He glances at his laptop screen, slowly blinking into rest mode. He manages to snag one last look at the emails flooding into his inbox; most of them from potential future venues. He sighs, reaching forward to grab his laptop and perch it on the arm of the couch. He’ll close his emails. Just after he’s finished typing out his last one.

It’s not that he doesn’t want Geralt knowing. The other man has too many things going on in his life right now. And he doesn’t want to get his hopes up just yet.

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek as he uploads his files; recordings, mostly done in his room at home, of new songs he wants to produce. He quickly signs off the email, praying to every god he can remember the name of that this producer will say yes.

Once it’s gone, and he’s left alone to deal with the slight tremor of nerves rattling through him, he shoves his laptop away and cradles the man stretched across him. Geralt’s brows knit together at being moved slightly, but as soon as Jaskier is burrowed back into the plush cushions of the couch and drags a blanket over him, Geralt’s hold on him tightens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨ Just a sprinkling of fluff before some more plot ✨ 
> 
> I have a few more things I want to do with this fic before I start wrapping it up 🥰


	29. Chapter 29

Anyone who tries to call before the sun is even up should be put to death. That’s the only thought that passes through Geralt’s mind when he clambers awake, hearing the tell-tale sound of a phone vibrating nearby. He rubs at his eyes, willing enough sleep away to figure out what has grown brave enough to try and wake him up at whatever hour it is.

The body he’s curled around slips away, and that just about does it.

Geralt blinks, lifting his head off of his pillow to watch Jaskier clamber out of bed. He nabs his phone off of the bedside table and almost flees Geralt’s room altogether, not even looking over his shoulder to check on the other man.

A soft frown knits his brows together. Jaskier doesn’t like waking up. Jaskier doesn’t like waking up if it’s almost the dead of winter and the world outside of his bed is cold and doesn’t have Geralt in it. If left to his own devices, the man could probably sleep through the whole day. And he certainly doesn’t appreciate someone calling him in the early morning hours before he’s had his coffee.

Geralt sinks back into his pillow; the pull of comfy and plush warmth is just too strong. But he tries to keep himself awake, clinging on by his fingertips as he focuses on the bedroom door. Jaskier’s voice eventually fades as the man gets further and further away from him.

Ciri fusses in her crib, but she eventually goes back to sleep too. She has her stuffed toys and her blankets to keep her company.

 _Lucky for some_ , Geralt thinks. He struggles to sleep without Jaskier. When the other man spends the night, either at his apartment of Jaskier’s house, he gets through the night relatively unbothered. Having Jaskier near settles any lingering nerves that might be haunting his mind.

He isn’t gone for long. Just when Geralt thinks of parting with his soft and warm bed to go and look for the other man, the door to the room creaks open and shut, and the familiar sound of bare feet padding back to bed.

Geralt sighs into his pillow. “What was that about?” he mumbles, most of the words lost as Jaskier settles back into bed.

The man hums, lying down and gathering Geralt into his arms as soon as he shuffles over. Familiar fingers card through Geralt’s hair, warmth blooming through him and trailing down his spine. “Just a work thing,” Jaskier whispers. He sets his lips to the crown of Geralt’s head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Sleep pulls at him and it’s too strong to try and fight it. Geralt hums, burying his nose into the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder and neck. Before long, before he can even linger on any thoughts trying to grasp for his attention, Jaskier lures him back to sleep with soft touches dusted over his shoulders and nape.

* * *

By the time he wakes up, strong white sunlight stretches in through the windows. Geralt blinks and groans, burying his face into his pillow. It must be late in the morning, if the sun is that strong. Geralt rubs his face, shaking away the last tendril of sleep that makes him want to burrow back underneath the sheets and sleep the day away.

Within moments, he realises that he’s alone. He reaches out, running his hand along the other side of the bed. Cold sheets haphazardly made up greet him. Jaskier can slip out of bed unbothered if Geralt is lured down enough. When his hold on the other man slackens, only then does Jaskier slip out of bed. Geralt lifts his head from his pillow and realises Ciri is gone too. It must be late in the morning, if the sun is anything to go by.

Getting out of bed is a struggle. He’s tired. He loves having Ciri around, and he’s always loath to give her back to Yennefer when his time is up with her; but when Ciri is ill, and she’s his sole responsibility, it takes a lot out of him. Geralt rubs the last of sleep from his eyes, squinting against the light dazzling into the room. He grabs a worn pair of sweatpants and a tee, haphazardly tugging them on, before stepping out into the rest of the apartment.

Music floats up, gently humming through the air. It isn’t Jaskier, that’s all he knows. It sounds like one of Eskel’s usual playlists he has on in the morning; seeing as though he’s incapable of doing anything in his kitchen without having something to hum along to.

Geralt stretches out his shoulders, wincing at a particularly sharp crack as he rolls them.

Despite being packed with four grown men and a seven-month-old baby, the apartment lulls in its usual quiet. Lambert works in the living room, with his laptop perched on his thighs as he types out something or other. He doesn’t even lift his gaze from the screen to huff out a general _good morning_ at Geralt. Geralt is just surprised he even got an acknowledgement at all. Eskel keeps to the kitchen, finishing up on breakfast. The smell of grilled bacon and toast wisped down the hallway, just about leading Geralt towards the kitchen. Now standing outside of the kitchen, he breathes in a deep lungful of warming food. His stomach rumbles.

And then there’s Jaskier and Ciri. Jaskier has her perched on his knee, her tiny arms resting against the table and reaching out for forks. They’re just out of reach, but Ciri huffs at every time Jaskier pulls her back slightly. “They aren’t for you, silly girl,” he gentles, showing her plastic utensils instead. The move on to solid food seems to be a quick one. She likes whatever Eskel makes her. But trying to get her used to spoons and forks is proving challenging.

Her breakfast is merely mashed banana and a small slice of toast, but she happily nibbles on the corner of it; more drooling on to the bread, rather than eat it. His own breakfast – bacon and scrambled eggs – seem long forgotten about as he shows the girl just how to navigate eating toast. She’s getting the hang of it, if it’s anything to go by. She knows how to hold on to it now, and not fling it across the table or the room just as they step away from her.

Jaskier notices him after a moment. “Morning,” he says, lifting his chin. A silent request. Geralt smiles, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips.

Lambert makes a gagging noise. Geralt breaks away from Jaskier’s lips, to do nothing but flip his brother off. He grumbles something under his breath, turning back to his laptop screen.

Ciri coos and stretches her arms up for him. Her toast and mushed banana are long forgotten about. “Madame,” Jaskier clicks his tongue, “you still have food on your plate.” He challenges her stare for a moment, unyielding even as a giggle rattles through her. She loves Jaskier. She loves his guitar and how he sings to her on more active nights, and she loves how silly he can be. She reaches up and tries to bat at his chin – but her hand is quickly caught with his. “And now you’re acting all stroppy. I see how it is. You’re your mother’s daughter, alright.”

Geralt fishes Ciri from Jaskier’s lap, smiling broadly when she burrows into his chest. She stuffs a hand against her mouth and nibbles on it. Despite her having a few new teeth, she doesn’t seem to mind gnawing at her own hand. Geralt doesn’t even try and tug it away from her. Her soother should be around the apartment somewhere. That’s what has become of their home ever since Ciri was born – a maelstrom of stuff everywhere. They were always clean and tidy. Vesemir taught them to be. But having a baby threw all of Vesemir’s teachings out the window.

Eskel appears with Geralt’s food, wordlessly handing it to him but paying attention to Ciri instead. He offers her a small slice of banana, something she grabs at and spends more time playing with rather than eating it. Geralt sighs. She’s still so small. She’ll get the hang of eating – he hopes.

Jaskier finally turns to his breakfast, stuffing as much bacon and eggs into his mouth as he can. Geralt sits with him at the dining table, perching Ciri on his lap. She’s interested in his own plate of food, but he has enough dexterity to cradle her in one arm while he uses his other hand to eat. In the quieter mornings, he's able to let himself breathe for a moment, even with a squirming baby perched on his lip trying to tug at his tee and any stray wisps of hair that fall out of a messy bun. She blinks up at him, babbling absolute nonsense, and his heart clenches in his chest. Her eyes are getting more blue with each passing day, with faint specks of gold in them. Her cheeks around round with baby-fat and he never wants them to change. If he could keep her like this forever, sleepless nights be damned, he would. But she's already seven months old and on her way to forming her first words, and he's scrambling to chase after her. 

Gods alive, he really hopes her first word isn't a swear - Lambert has a bet on it. 

Jaskier catches his eye as he clears the last of his breakfast. He winks, an assuring one that whatever's swirling around Geralt's head is only noise, and that Jaskier is nearby. Geralt's lips twitch into a smile. Ciri catches his hand and plays with it for a moment, her fingers barely able to curl around two of his fingers. "Will she be okay in the car?" Jaskier asks, nodding to the small baby bag perched on the kitchen counter. 

Geralt blinks at it for a second before he sighs. Vesemir wanted them over for lunch today. And it almost slipped from him completely. He nods. "Yeah, yeah, uh, she should be fine," he looks down at the baby perched quite happily on his lap. Car rides can be a lot, but the promise of visiting Grandpa should tide her over on the drive there. He hopes. 

* * *

Vesemir’s house is quiet. It’s a world away than any of the boroughs – even Kaedwen. By the time the towering blocks of apartments start to thin out, and the highway slowly fades into small roads, Geralt feels his shoulders drop slightly. He can understand why Vesemir took everything he could in his arms and fled to the country. Maybe he should do the same; when Jaskier marries him, and Geralt can have some sort of business far away from the eyes of the boroughs, and Jaskier can make music among the trees like one of those musician hermit types. The idea of it has a small smile curling along his lip.

Ciri coos in the backseat, babbling on about something or other that’s completely lost on him. He takes his eyes off of the road for a moment to watch her in the rear-view mirror. She’s getting good at recognising landmarks. When they pass the last apartment building of Kaedwen before darting out on to the countryside roads, she starts squirming in her seat. She loves visiting her grandpa.

Jaskier looks out the window, watching the scenery change. His phone sits on his lap, unmoving and blank. It’s not a particularly odd sight. Jaskier’s phone is constantly in his hand, more of a thing to fidget and fiddle with than anything else. Or else, he would already have a playlist of some indie songs Geralt doesn’t know the names of playing in the background. It would have to be quieter than usual, with Ciri in the back, but the car ride has been quiet ever since they left Kaedwen. Not that Geralt wants the silence filled. It’s not awkward or wanting to be filled at all. Every so often, when the road straightens and levels out, he lets a hand drift from the steering wheel and settles it on to Jaskier’s thigh. The other man huffs a small laugh. His hand curls into Geralt’s.

By the time they reach Vesemir’s house, the sun is already perched high in the sky. It will be a quick tumble down, now that winter is starting to settle in and turn the days shorter. But he doesn’t mind how long they spend at Vesemir’s house. He would keep them there for days on end, possibly forever, if he could.

He’s in the front garden when they pull up outside. Geralt watches as the elder manages to his feet, trying his best to hide a wince as his joints crack and muscles groan. Geralt shuts the car door behind him. “You should have a gardener,” he comments when Vesemir shuffles over.

Geralt fishes Ciri out of the backseat, cradling her against him and draping a thick blanket around her to stave off the chill. Jaskier did his best to bundle her in a thick sweater and a fur-rimmed jacket and a woollen hat, but she’s wiggly and adept at managing to snake away from him when he’s trying to get her dressed.

Vesemir tries his best to glower at his son, but it dissolves completely when Ciri cranes her head around and coos at him. “I came out here to do things for myself,” he mutters regardless, shucking off his soil-caked gloves to hold out a finger to the girl. Ciri nabs it and shakes his hand and giggles. Vesemir levels his pup with a _look_. “And don’t start with this whole _your age_ business. If you’re here to call me old then you can go.”

Geralt snorts. “I’ll take Ciri with me then.”

“Oh, she can stay,” Vesemir replies, “as can my new son-in-law.”

Jaskier’s cheeks colour as he joins Geralt’s side. And he’ll blame it on the sharp wind that cuts through the trees and fields surrounding Vesemir’s house, but Geralt knows it’s because of the inclusion into his family. Jaskier isn’t shy by any means. He talks enough for both of them. But he’ll clam up at any mention of being included in a family. Geralt’s chest tightens. How far must he be distanced from his own to be cautious of being included anywhere else? Jaskier never talks about it, and he doesn’t want to, and any conversations Geralt has tried to brave on the matter have been shot down before they can even take off, so he’s left it.

Vesemir gestures to the house. “Come,” he says, already striding off. “It’s too cold to stay out here.”

Every time they come to Vesemir’s house, it’s filled out more with things to make it more of a home. Furniture has started to wear down, alongside bookshelves filling out and creaking with leather-bound tomes of books and editions of books in danger of breaking their spines with how many times they’ve been read. There’s a box in the living room that has a collection of toys for Ciri; some blocks she used to play with and gnaw when she was even younger, and some stuffed animals Vesemir bought in case she ever forgets one of her own.

Vesemir dutifully shuffles into the kitchen, gathering what he can for their lunch. A somewhat spontaneous visit, with Geralt only calling the elder to ask if they could visit an hour ago. But Vesemir always has food knocking around, just in case any of his pups drift by for a visit. The warming smell of tomato soup floats up the hallway, alongside the tell-tale smell of Vesemir’s grilled cheese sandwiches. Food Geralt was brought up on.

Since Ciri has learned how to crawl, she’s been unstoppable. It’s slow, and more of a shuffle-and-drag affair, but she’s able to move on her own if she can get her hands and arms underneath herself. When Geralt sits her down on the floor, she turns on to her stomach and she’s off before he can even catch his breath. Jaskier’s laugh is quiet and light. “I’ll keep an eye on her.” He nudges Geralt’s shoulder, nodding to the kitchen where he can hear the tell-tale clinking of pots and pans and plates. “Go on.”

Vesemir might be battling some sort of war with the winds outside, muttering at how they’re tightening his joints and making his muscles groan, but in the kitchen, he moves quicker than Geralt can keep up with. He stays to the portal of the door, setting his shoulder against it while the elder works in pour ample amounts of soup into bowls. Geralt folds his arms over his chest. “How have you been?”

The elder’s shoulders shake as he laughs. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he throws over his shoulder. Vesemir glances down at Geralt’s hidden left hand. “How’s being engaged?”

And Geralt’s cheeks threaten to colour. He lifts his chin. “It’s fine,” he says. The band around his finger starts to scald. “It’s good. More than good.”

Vesemir huffs. “You’ve always been good with your words,” he chuckles, setting pots aside and plating up some sandwiches. Geralt manages one step into the kitchen before he has a hand waved at him. “No, no, I have this. Go and sit down.”

Geralt holds Vesemir stare before he walks over to the man, grabbing whatever plates he can hold, and helps the man set the kitchen table. He weathers Vesemir’s grumblings. “You didn’t answer my question,” Geralt tries again after a moment.

Vesemir focuses on the table; setting bowls down in their usual places alongside all of the cutlery they’ll need. He makes a point of arranging everything, and keeping his gaze away from Geralt’s.

It tells him all he needs to know.

Geralt clicks his tongue and Vesemir sighs. “Alright,” he sighs, straightening. There’s another small wince. Barely there, but one that Geralt manages to catch. His eyes run over the elder. He looks fine. But Vesemir is hardy and stubborn. The elder rolls his eyes. “I’ve been tired lately, that’s all.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, in some attempt to lure more out of him. He could threaten to drag the man to a doctor himself. Or get Lambert or Eskel to do it. Either way—

Vesemir sighs, setting his hands on his hips. “Don’t worry about me, boy,” he rumbles. He regards the table for a moment. “Get your fiancé. Lunch is getting cold.”

* * *

“He’s a stubborn old fool,” Lambert scoffs. “What did you expect?”

Geralt hums. The apartment is quiet. With Ciri gone to stay at Yennefer’s and Jaskier already turned into bed, it’s just the three of them. They’re all perched in their own seats around the living room, slouched and lounging and nursing drinks. Geralt takes a measured sip of his beer.

Eskel rubs at his forehead, trying to wring out an oncoming headache. “We can’t kidnap him,” he mutters. Lambert hums into his glass, musing. “We can’t, Lam,” Eskel narrows his eyes. He takes a measured breath. “If he doesn’t want to go to the doctor, we can’t force him to go.”

“We can blackmail him,” Lambert offers, turning to Geralt. “No more Ciri-visits until he’s been to an appointment.”

A short laugh huffs out of Geralt. That might just work. But he’ll find some way of getting around it. Geralt drains the last of his beer. There’s a warm hum in his veins, enough to get him buzzed, but not drunk. It’s the way he wants to be. He still has to navigate getting to his room and into bed where, hopefully, Jaskier is asleep. He reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Eskel watches him out of the corner of his eye. The quieter brother, the most observant. The one who watches the room and gets a read before acting. He hums after a moment, looking down into the bowl of his glass and swirling the amber whiskey inside. “We’ll keep an eye on it,” he murmurs. The apartment is quiet. With everyone else asleep and them content to mull their thoughts over drinks, nothing comes to disturb them. “It could be nothing.”

 _Or it could be something_.

And Geralt bites the inside of his cheek, stopping himself from going down that path. He’s been lured down it too many times, but lulling whispers ghosted against the shell of his ear, saying the most horrid of things. He won’t let it happen. Not when he’s in his own home and there might be the possibility of nothing actually being wrong.

He sets his empty bottle on to the coffee table between them. Eskel lifts his chin. “I’ll clear up,” he says, gesturing to the small collection of snacks strewn about too. “Go get some sleep. You look like shit.”

Lambert hums. “You really do.”

“Thanks,” Geralt mutters, palming the back of his neck to work out a small tight pinch there. “Having a baby will do that.”

Lambert scratches at his beard, half-absentmindedly. “We can take her for a few hours if you want?”

Geralt levels him with a firm stare. “Absolutely not.” Gods only know what could happen to Ciri under the care of her uncles. But sleep does start to pull at him. With the shorter days and longer nights, and the assurance of a warm bed and a warm body to curl around and hold close, it’s enough to get his feet shuffling towards the hallway.

His bedroom is dark and still when he slips inside, gently shutting the door behind him. He can hear the familiar sounds of Jaskier’s deep breathing half-smothered against his pillow. When sleep comes to lure the man down, it’s unyielding in just how deep down it drags him. For a moment, any coldness that had been curled around his chest and lungs slowly withers away. His heart aches and he can’t change into his sleep-clothes quick enough.

Despite half-snoring, Jaskier wades awake as soon as the bed dips underneath Geralt. He huffs against his pillow, not even bothering to open his eyes as he turns on to his side, stretching out an arm. A silent invitation. Geralt’s smile stretches across his lips at the sight of a soft-haired sleepy Jaskier reaching for him. He slips underneath his sheets, bundling them around himself to stave off the chill, and buries himself into Jaskier’s hold. A happy sort of noise slips out of Jaskier’s lips, hidden in the crown of Geralt’s head. Sleep has never been kind to him. He spent a year being mortal enemies with it; it would either not visit him at all or drag him under for hours on end and not let go. But tonight, even when the darker, more scarred, part of his mind wanders back towards thinking of his father, the warmth blooming into his skin and muscle and bones from being burrowed against the other man wards it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cresting for a bit more plot, because although I said I would finish this fic...my brain said ✨ no ✨


	30. Chapter 30

Jaskier’s house seems to swell with life. Having three housemates will do that. Geralt knows from experience of living with his brothers, and the people his brothers bring home with them, that having people around changes the air. Jaskier’s house is warm lights and food and laughter, where Geralt can slip away from Kaedwen and Aedirn and hibernate for a moment until he has to be back for Ciri.

Geralt watches from the portal of the door while a small party lilts in the living room and spills out into the kitchen. A small smile curls along his lip, twitching the corner, when he spots Jaskier rounding the room again with his guitar, Pris’ arm linked through one of his, as they crow out every song shouted their way. Most of the people in the house, Geralt knows. Or recognises in passing, at the very least. People who Jaskier has introduced to him to or mentioned on a few occasions. And he’s been kind, offering them all small smiles and short conversations; but he stays by the portal of the door, half in the living room and half out in the hallway, where there’s a quick escape route should it all become too much. The hum of noise and the chatter of conversation through it all, it’s dulled slightly by a slight buzz from his beer. He takes another measured sip of it, trying not to smile too broadly when Jaskier and Pris crest into their performance’s climactic end. How his guitar doesn’t hit off of anything or anyone else, Geralt doesn’t know, but Jaskier manages a deep bow when he’s done. His laugh cuts through the applause that rattles through the crowd. A laugh that draws a smile out of Geralt.

Pris presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, murmuring something or other into his ear. Geralt lifts his chin, trying to tune out all of the noise. Before he knows it, two gazes are suddenly upon him. Jaskier’s familiar blue eyes, with a glint of mischief sparking through them. Pris doesn’t look that much more innocent. She ducks her head, laughing, and before Geralt can blink, some of her friends have dragged her off to the kitchen for a drink. Jaskier stalks through the small crowd in his living room as though he were walking through parted water. 

Two warm arms coil around his shoulders and neck before he’s tugged down into a kiss. Jaskier’s tongue meets his as the other man lures him into a deep kiss, one that has shockwaves pulsing through him and his toes curling. One of Geralt’s arms threads around Jaskier’s waist, holding him close. But before the singer’s hands can even think of wandering, Geralt pulls away.

“You’re drunk,” Geralt laughs breathlessly at the small whine that slips out of the man’s throat, lifting his chin just enough to avoid Jaskier’s lips as he tries for another kiss. And it’s difficult. He likes kissing Jaskier. He would go as far as to say it’s one of his favourite things to do. But when Jaskier is this far gone, and he’s notorious for turning kisses into touches into something else entirely, and Geralt wants to bring a halt to that before it wanders away from them both.

Jaskier still pouts. “You’re terrible,” he sighs, half-slumping into Geralt’s chest. The arms around his shoulders firm slightly, bringing him closer. Geralt’s hands find the man’s waist, settling just over the arches of his hips; and Jaskier starts swaying them. It’s some half-formed dance, and distantly Geralt can hear the hum of music in the kitchen. Someone has obviously claimed the speakers. But Jaskier hums underneath his breath. Against his chest, Geralt feels the man mumble, “You’re awful and the worst. I just want a kiss.”

Geralt chuckles, perching his chin on top of Jaskier’s head. People gathered in the living room hardly notice them, but Geralt still watches out for any stray eyes. A few of Jaskier’s other friends, ones that he’s met only a handful of times, have already spotted the black band around Geralt’s finger. He wouldn’t dream of taking it off – even to thread it through a chain and keep it around his neck – but he would appreciate if he didn’t have dozens of eyes seemingly dropped down to his hand.

When Jaskier looks up at him, a firm pout is stretched across his lips. “Terrible man,” he huffs. His words aren’t dulled or slurring. It takes quite a lot to get Jaskier drunk, he’s learned over the time of them being together. He’s matched with Lambert in how much alcohol he can put back before his steps and words start to falter. But he _is_ tipsy. Geralt’s nose flares at the subtle scent of wine and spirits wisping off of the man’s breath, and the slight drowsiness clouding his eyes tell him all he needs to know.

This _is_ Jaskier’s house. He could very easily tell people to fuck off. He has, in the past; when parties have lasted too long into the next morning and a few people still hang around. When all Jaskier wants to do is go upstairs and curl into Geralt, he’s shepherded people out of his house in the most efficient fashion Geralt has ever seen. But he doesn’t look as if he wants to do it now. He’s offered up another song in a few minutes, just after he’s lured a kiss out of his fiancé – a kiss he’s stubbornly being denied.

Jaskier sighs. “Pris said you were watching me, with those eyes you do when you realise that you love me – it’s quite cute, actually. Big fan of it,” he rambles, swaying them to the soft, muffled beat of a song playing from the kitchen. “And you usually want to kiss me when you have those eyes out.”

Geralt hums. “I do want to kiss you,” he murmurs, just low enough for Jaskier to hear. A few people stumble out into the hallway but are quickly scrambling away again. Jaskier’s brow lifts. “But not here. I want you to myself.”

That lures a small smile out of the other man. Something glints in his eye and it takes every ounce of willpower Geralt can muster not to throw the man over his shoulder and bundle him upstairs.

There’s a crow of Jaskier’s name from the living room. Pris, armed with Jaskier’s guitar, stands in the middle of the room with a grin stretched across her lips. “Come on!” she crows. “You’re hardly done after one song?”

Jaskier balks. “Absolutely not!” His arms slip away from Geralt’s shoulders and the other man struggles not to shudder at the loss of heat. Jaskier begins to turn away from him, about to storm back into the living room and pick up where he left off, but he catches himself. He turns back to Geralt, rocking up on to his toes and pressing a quick kiss to Geralt’s lips.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “Brat,” he mutters under his breath, but a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lip. Before he can even think of catching Jaskier’s hand or arm, the other man darts into the living room and into the ocean of people flooding in, all calling for songs.

* * *

_Eskel : Well, I talked to the old bastard. _

Within seconds, Eskel picks up the phone. Geralt only has to wait for two rings before the other man’s voice is suddenly in his ear. He hides himself away in the office, passing Roach who barely lifts her head from her bed. The inside of the office is a far cry from the horrid weather outside. Roach is curled into a ball, tucked into a new plush bed Coën bought for her, and the heating is turned up to the last. The only thing she flattens her ears at is how often Geralt paces in and out of the office, leaving the door open and inviting old air to slip in.

Geralt takes a measured breath. “What did he say?”

“Oh, the usual,” Eskel sighs. “A lot of _you boys don’t know what you’re talking about_ and _I’m fine_.” Eskel’s impression of their father might be shoddy, but listening to the words, Geralt might as well be on the phone with him now.

He catches the bridge of his nose, watching a headache start to creep in from the shadows and tense up his temple.

“He agreed to go to the doctor, at least,” Eskel mumbles, not entirely convinced all the same.

Geralt hums. “It was either that or we were going to have to drag him there.” He doesn’t want to, but there is a possible plan in place to storm Vesemir’s house and bundle the man into Geralt’s car and drive to the nearest doctor. And if he’s going to be completely honest with himself, he’s keeping the plan as an option, just in case the grumpy old bastard doesn’t actually go by himself at all.

He watches the garage outside. Lambert’s wild red curls he can spot from anywhere. The man waves in a new customer, showing them the work he’s done to the car. And it’s all slipped away from Geralt. He’s managed what office work he can from home, in the midst of caring for Ciri. But he hasn’t been able to set his hands on an engine or motor in months; though, if he were to walk out there now, he would know what to do the second the first drop of oil stains his fingers. It’s all muscle memory, and years of Vesemir teaching him the inner workings of cars and how they work will come back to him within seconds.

His fingers twitch. “Keep me updated, will you?” he mumbles.

Eskel hums. “Of course.” Because if Geralt knows his father as well as he thinks he does, Eskel might be the only one to approach him now without getting a shoe thrown at his face. When Eskel hangs up, and Geralt is left on his own, he takes a moment to breathe. _He’ll be fine_. It’s a mantra that has been swirling around and around in his head for hours on end, ever since they came home from Vesemir’s house. It doesn’t stop the constant niggling thought prodding the back of his mind that it could be _something_. But worrying won’t help anyone, so he drags himself back to the computer and sets about bringing up the last of the orders for the day.

He glances down at the dog curled at his feet, cosy in her bed and softly snoring. A small laugh manages to slip out of him. “Not a care in the world, huh Roach?” he mumbles. The retriever’s ears perk at her name being made, but she doesn’t lift her head. Her tail, coiled around herself, staving off a small chill, begins to thump in a soft wag. Geralt reaches down, scratching the crown of the dog’s head. “I wish we could all be like you.”

Roach blinks at him before falling back asleep, proving his point nonetheless. Roach has never been stressed or anxious about anything – not even when Lambert tried to kill her for destroying most of his room. He really does wish he could be like her; someone without a care in the world who goes from day to day without having a sickening feeling coiled in his gut and tightening his chest.

Until he can work out a way of making that happen, he supposes he’ll just have to keep telling himself that everything will be fine, and hope that the message sticks.

* * *

Jaskier’s house can be full of noise and life, but it can also be as still as a graveyard too. Geralt watches the rafters of the ceiling while he listens to the distant rustlings of Jaskier in the bathroom down the hall. With Pris, Essi, and Shani all out for the night, unsure of when exactly they’ll be coming home, both he and Jaskier have had a quiet night. It reminded him of their early days together; when Geralt would come over and the hours would slip by as they lounged on the sofa, half-watching movies. Now, the familiar languid feeling laps over him as he dozes in Jaskier’s bed, an arm pillowed behind his head and bedsheets lowly slung over his hips. The sharp chill of the winds outside isn’t his concern anymore. Jaskier’s house is always warm and cosy; but he still has one of his more worn tees on, to spare himself just in case a stray wind slips in.

He’s almost lulled down to sleep when Jaskier’s phone goes off. It sits on his bedside table, across the bed and more than an arm’s reach away. Not that he would ever look at the man’s phone, but Geralt does turn his head to look at it. It’s too far away to reach out, and he’s not a fan of the idea of moving. So he sighs, sinking further down into the mattress and the nest of blankets Jaskier always has piled on to his bed.

Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of the floorboards creaking in the hallway outside. A soft-haired, freshly showered Jaskier pads into his room, letting the door click shut behind him. A small smile stretches across his lips. “You look comfy,” he says lightly, shuffling over to his side of the bed. He’s wearing a tee that Geralt is almost certain belonged to him at one point, but the neck is stretched out slightly and reveals the join of the man’s neck and shoulders, and a sliver of the top of his chest. Jaskier slips into bed and spends his usual amount of time rearranging pillows and sheets to get as comfortable as he can.

“Your phone has been going off,” Geralt rumbles, nodding to the bedside table.

Jaskier blinks at him for a moment. “Oh,” he says after a moment, looking over to the phone. He seems to debate checking it with himself before he reaches over. Geralt doesn’t look. He doesn’t want to, and his eyelids are getting heavy with how comfy and warm he is. The days of stress and anxious, creeping thoughts slowly unfurl their claws from him, leaving him exhausted and numb.

Beams of glowing light stretch in from the streetlamps outside. They slowly crawl towards the foot of the bed, highlighting everything in the room. Geralt’s apartment is so high up that the glare of lights never seems to reach. Unless it’s a particularly clear night, and the moon is out and full, his room has always been dark. It’s nice being able to still look around and make out the bundle of clothes hanging off of the back of Jaskier’s desk chair or the edge of a cupboard.

It’s a contrast to the sharp white phone light staining the man’s face at the other side of the bed. He takes one last look at the screen before seemingly turning off his phone altogether and plugging it back in to charge.

Geralt rolls his head, watching Jaskier fidget with his blankets. “Everything alright?” he asks. Sleep is insistent and tugs at him, but he doesn’t like how Jaskier’s usual smile has slipped from his lips.

It takes a second for Geralt’s words to even register with him. “Oh, yeah, yeah I’m fine,” he says, slipping underneath the sheets and burrowing closer to Geralt. He takes up his usual position of moulding himself to the man’s side, resting his head on the pillow beside Geralt’s, while slinging an arm and leg over the man to keep him pinned. Not like Geralt is interested in going anywhere else.

Geralt curls an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. He’s tensed up slightly, but doing that thing where he’s trying to manage his own breathing and not be found out – despite the fact that Geralt can feel how hard his heart is hammering in his chest.

The tips of his fingers dust against Jaskier’s shoulders. “Jask,” he rumbles. He doesn’t have to look at the man anymore to lure the deeper thoughts out of him. He’s gotten used to noticing the signs on his face whenever something sours his mind and he desperately tries to hide it.

It’s a long while before anything manages to clamber out of Jaskier’s throat. Geralt weathers the maelstrom churning in the man’s mind as he struggles to find the right words for whatever is wrong. When he does speak, it’s quiet and mumbled, and Geralt silently thanks all the gods he can remember the names of that the house is still and silent, otherwise he wouldn’t have heard Jaskier at all.

“My parents called the other day.”

It takes more effort than Geralt is willing to admit to keep his fingers gently rubbing Jaskier’s shoulders and back. It’s something that Jaskier delights in, and whenever he stops, he’ll get a soft whine out of Jaskier’s throat to keep going. And the touch is good for luring stubborn sour thoughts out of the man’s head – so Geralt keeps going, and staying quiet so Jaskier can keep talking.

“Well, not really,” he mumbles, setting his palm over the swell of Geralt’s chest. He keeps his eyes locked on to his fingers, gently smoothing the worn fabric of Geralt’s shirt. “Mum called. She, uh...I don’t know how, but she found out. She found out about you and me. I guess that was a given. Someone from home was going to see something. But she knows...she knows about me proposing to you, and she wants—” A firm frown sets itself into Jaskier’s brow. Not at the situation, Geralt thinks, but more at the fact that a wordsmith like Jaskier can’t seem to string the right, cohesive words together to say what he’s thinking. “Gods alive, she asked if she could come and meet you. Like, what made her think of that? They haven’t spoken to me in, gods, I don’t even know how long, and they turn around and want to meet my fiancé.”

Geralt blinks every time Jaskier says the word. It doesn’t seem real; and here Jaskier is, able to say it as easily as he says everything else.

A sound slips out of Jaskier’s throat. “I don’t know,” he says, burrowing his face into the hollow of Geralt’s neck. The rest of his words are muffled and almost lost, but he keeps going. “It’s dumb. I haven’t replied to any of it. She’s been lighting up my phone for the last two days. I’m expecting her to just show up. If she does, don’t let her in. Please? I don’t want to deal with any of it.”

Geralt gentles him, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s still damp hair. He smells of sweetly scented shower gels and shampoos, lotions and oils. Geralt buries his nose into the nest of soft hair. “It’s alright,” he rumbles, the sound coming out from the depths of his chest. “Nothing will happen.”

 _Don’t make him a promise you can’t keep_. Something vicious and vile spits it from the back of his mind, but he pushes it away. Thoughts from the shadows of his brain won’t help. Not now. He bundles Jaskier closer, hoping that being encased in familiar arms, warmed by the places they’re pressed together, will wring the last of his worry out of him. Under his breath, mostly lost into the crown of Jaskier’s head, Geralt mumbles what he can. _You’re okay. You’re with me, in your house, in Redania. Everything is alright._

He can feel Jaskier slipping. Sleep creeps in from the shadow cloaked corners of the room and starts to tug them both under. He manages to last just long enough to make sure that Jaskier has drifted off to sleep before him. When he’s happy that the other man is gone, that he’s lax and soft against Geralt’s side, Geralt slips too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sniff sniff* Is that...is that ✨ plot ✨ I smell in the air? Even though I said in previous chapters I would start ending this fic? My brain really said "no you aren't 🥰"
> 
> There are two things I would like to do to this fic. Both are mentioned in this chapter - so let's see them through and hope that I don't abandon this fic like I do with all the rest of my fics 😅👀


	31. Chapter 31

The calls don’t stop. He only knows that it’s Jaskier’s parents – or his mother, at least – by how tightly the man sighs as soon as he sees his phone’s screen. He hasn’t answered any of them, not that Geralt knows of anyway. When the texts come, he doesn’t answer any of those either.

“Why don’t you just block her number?” Pris asks from across the table. A feast of food sits between all of them; pasta and bread and wine, all already picked at and portioned. Geralt can feel Jaskier stiffen slightly beside him, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches Jaskier stab a forkful of pasta.

“Or tell her to piss off,” Essi mutters, taking a measured sip of wine. Geralt arches an eyebrow at her, but he gets a shrugged shoulder in response. _Technically_ this is Jaskier’s home. It might have belonged to the Pankratz’s at one point, but it’s his now. And they know that. That’s probably why Geralt hasn’t had to answer the door to a strange older couple standing outside.

Jaskier’s jaw stays clamped shut. Even when his phone buzzes again.

Shani sets her glass down and sticks out her hand. “Give it to me,” she orders tightly. The look etched on to her face isn’t one to ignore or argue against.

But Jaskier stares her down. “You’re not replying to her—”

“-I’m not,” Shani rolls her eyes. “I’m putting your phone into the kitchen and then you can have a lovely dinner with us in peace.”

And Geralt blinks at the sight of Jaskier actually handing over his phone. Once Shani has it, she marches it into the kitchen and leaves it there. Distantly, Geralt can still hear it shudder against the countertop. But as soon as Shani comes back and takes her seat, and a conversation starts up around the table again, the phone, and who is at the other end of the line, is long forgotten about.

Geralt keeps an eye on him. He stops attacking the food on his plate, and starts taking measured sips of wine. Jaskier’s shoulders eventually start to stoop. At the first smile and light laugh lured out of him by a story from Essi eases the tension in his chest.

He leg falls to the side. Geralt’s thigh presses against his and the warmth that blooms through jeans and skin is enough to bring him back. Jaskier glances over at him. A small smile tilts the corners of his lips. But there’s something still behind his eyes, and Geralt will do all he can to chase it away; but for now, he’ll take a small victory in the smile.

* * *

Eskel texts him as often as he can, to the point where Geralt is getting regular updates seemingly every two minutes. From the drive from their apartment to Vesemir’s house, to the moment the elder grumpily shuffled into the car and grumbled all the way to the doctor’s office, now all Geralt is getting are texts about waiting. And listening to Vesemir complain that he wants to go.

He rolls his eyes. Eskel’s phone rings twice before the other man picks up, and before he can say anything, Geralt snips. “Put him on.” Because he knows well that if Geralt’s name popped up on his phone, Vesemir wouldn’t answer. At least he’s trapped beside one of his sons, on a hard plastic chair, in a public setting.

There are some short grunts of conversation.

 _Geralt wants to talk to you_.

**_Tell him I’m not here_ ** _._

_Dad—_

The moment he hears the tell-tale sound of Vesemir’s mutterings through the phone, Geralt leans into it. “You’re staying in that office until someone tells you what’s wrong,” he bites. And, _yeah_ , he can’t force Vesemir to stay. None of them can. He’s within his right to leave. But by all the gods above, each of his sons, and his new son-in-law, will badger him about getting his health looked at for the days and weeks and months, and _years_ , to come. Maybe Vesemir was right – his pups will put him into an early grave.

Vesemir manages to growl back, muttering something or other about Geralt having no right to make him stay, but it doesn’t stop him at all. “I don’t, but something is wrong with you. You’re tired and you’re sore, so just get it checked out. You’re in your older years now – _don’t start_ , you’re old, dad. If the doctor says nothing is wrong, fine. But at least get it checked.”

Jaskier came into the room during all of that. He must have, because when the floorboards creak and Geralt snaps his head to the door, Jaskier is standing in the portal of it, frozen and slack-jawed.

There’s silence at the other end of the line. Geralt’s throat bobs. “Do you understand? We care about you, you stubborn bastard. Just...Just stay with Eskel. I’ll talk to you later.”

Familiar fingers thread through his hair, combing it back from his face. It’s still damp, fresh from the shower, but Jaskier’s fingertips smooth along his scalp and he doesn’t do anything to stop the shiver shaking through his spine. Jaskier knows exactly how to touch him.

His voice is gentle and barely disturbs the quietness left behind from the abruptly-ended call. “Is everything okay?”

Geralt hums. “Eskel took our dad to the doctor’s.”

It earns a sharp laugh out of the other man. “And how did that go?”

“As well as you’d expect,” Geralt mumbles. His eyelids flutter closed as Jaskier’s fingers move until he starts to massage the top of his neck and behind his ears. Places that Jaskier _knows_ will get the right kind of response out of him, and have Geralt’s toes curling and his fingertips numb and tingling. And then the fingers slip away.

The bed dips and Jaskier perches beside him, gathering Geralt into a light hold. The sun is still perched high enough to ward sleep away, even though he’s exhausted and just wants to burrow into bed and sleep for as long as he can. With Jaskier nearby, that might well be a thing that could happen. But Jaskier dusts kisses along every stretch of skin he can find. Eskel caught him just coming out of the shower, where he managed to pull on underwear and jeans, and nothing else. Padding out of the bathroom was an experience; meeting Essi halfway down the hallway while grumbling into his phone, bare-chested and his hair dripping down on to his shoulders.

Jaskier’s lips are soft and full. Geralt knocks their foreheads together, pressing and pushing, before Jaskier laughs and parts with his shoulder. As soon as Jaskier is far enough away, Geralt tilts his head and catches him in a kiss. His hand comes up to brush along Jaskier’s cheek, holding and gentling him. The world falls away whenever he kisses Jaskier. Every time reminds him of the first, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of luring kisses out of the other man.

Jaskier parts them, smiling broadly until his cheeks round. He sets their foreheads together. “You’re terrifying when you care, you know that right?”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. He doesn’t know how long Vesemir and Eskel will be at the doctor’s. And if this morning is anything to go by, Eskel will keep him updated every time there’s a new development. So there’s that, he guesses.

For now, Geralt brushes his nose against Jaskier’s. “Any more texts?”

Jaskier’s smile falters and his throat bobs, but he sighs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, pulling away from Geralt. He doesn’t go too far away. The arms encasing him stay where they are. Jaskier perches his chin on Geralt’s bare shoulder. “I should just change my number.”

Geralt hums. “Too many people have your number,” he reasons. “Including a lot of producers you’re talking to.”

Nothing has ever come of those conversations; not any that Geralt has shared with him, anyway. He sees the man hunched over his laptop and guitar, sending more and more samples to people who contact him throughout the day. Imagining it all be disturbed just because of his mother being persistent, it doesn’t sit right with him.

Jaskier jaw sets. “True,” he sighs. He presses one last kiss to Geralt’s shoulder before standing up. Jaskier is dressed, which is more he can say for himself. It’s only then does he realise that he’s still bare-chested, sitting on the edge of Jaskier’s bed in jeans and nothing else. Cold droplets of water drip from his hair and pool on his shoulders. He has clothes here. Half of his stuff is here in Jaskier’s house, and half of Jaskier’s things are in Geralt’s apartment. When the time comes for them to move in together – something he thinks about almost constantly, ever since a black band of gold-flecked obsidian found its way on to his finger – he wonders how much time they’ll spend trying to find everything from their shared places. Surely somethings have gone missing. Jaskier has an insistence on using Geralt’s tees are his own. When they’re lounging in the house, or going to sleep, Geralt has stopped being surprised at seeing his own shirts hang from the man’s body. And there have been a few occasions where he has worn Jaskier’s bigger sweatshirts; the ones that he’s had since Oxenfurt and have long worn out enough to fit him.

They’ll have to move it all. Where they’ll end up, that’s a question for another time. For now, he reaches out and catches Jaskier’s hand, squeezing it gently, before getting up to get dressed.

* * *

Geralt’s phone stays in his hand throughout the day. The thought lingers and stalks in the back of his mind. _How is he? What are they saying?_ He has half a mind to drive over to the doctor’s office and join them, but he knows the clobbering he’ll get from Vesemir if more of his sons join him. Lambert meets him back at the apartment, lounging on the couch, half-focused on a movie droning on in the background. The red-haired man perks up when he spots Geralt stepping into the living room. “Have you heard anything?”

Geralt shakes his head. “No, you?”

Lambert’s lips thin. “No.” And he doesn’t’ worry. Lambert might have been brash and forthcoming with his feelings – he still is, in many ways – but he doesn’t worry. He had been a stable rock for Geralt in the darker months post-Yennefer. But Geralt watches something glint in the back of his brother’s eyes, marring them. Even when he turns away, tries to set his focus to the TV, it lingers.

Geralt fidgets with his phone. “He’ll be okay,” he says, either to himself or Lambert or both. “Eskel will contact us if anything happens.”

Lambert doesn’t respond. Not verbally, anyway. His jaw clenches and his eyes dart away from the TV screen for a second, before he burrows back into the couch and lets the noise take over. It’s some movie he’s long since lost interest in, Geralt knows, just by the way he stares at the screen but doesn’t quite watch what’s on it. He slips his phone back into his pocket, making sure that it’s on full volume in case Eskel calls, and heads into the kitchen. His other brother already made portions of baby food for Ciri when she’s back with them, all of them stored inside in the fridge. Her bottles are lined up along the sink, as are some sterilised soothers. And he struggles to remember if he’s always noticed them there, or when it took him by surprise that his apartment has now been baby-fied. But he makes up some things for her anyway, knowing that Yennefer will be dropping the girl over in the morning before she heads to work. And Morning-Ciri is a force to be reckoned with.

He’s halfway through filling up the last bottle for tomorrow when he hears the apartment door clicking open. Two voices float up from the hall, both quiet and trying to be mumbled, but one more timid than the other. Lambert bolts out of his slouch, spine ramrod straight and ears pricked.

Eskel and Vesemir shuffle in, both still bundled in their coats and scarves, warding off the chill from outside. Geralt puts Ciri’s bottles aside and strides out into the living room, folding his arms over his chest. He watches Eskel and Vesemir’s faces for something, anything. But both seem tight-lipped. He arches an eyebrow. “Well?” he asks. “What did they say?”

Eskel glances to Vesemir, watching and regarding the man for a moment, before he bows his head. His expression is entirely unreadable, and Geralt hates it. The air thickens in the room, threatening to smoother if someone doesn’t break it by saying something, anything—

Vesemir sets his jaw. “They examined my lymph nodes and did some blood tests,” he says stiffly, “and I’m to go back to the doctor’s in a week.”

Lambert makes a tight sound. “That’s it?” he scoffs. “They kept you in for almost two hours for someone to poke at your neck and take a _blood test_?”

Eskel glowers at the youngest of them, but he’s met with an intense stare back. Geralt stiffens and his arms lock in front of his chest. Something lingers, perched, on the tip of Vesemir’s tongue. It’s held back by a tightened jaw and clenched teeth. Geralt’s brow furrows. His voice, when he opens his mouth and manages to push something out, is nothing more than a rasp and threatens to wobble. “Dad?”

Vesemir’s eyes are different. They’re bloodshot and shadowed. Vesemir sighs, and it comes out of his whole body. “They,” he starts, stopping to taste the words sitting on his tongue. Eskel slinks away, striding into the kitchen and holding up there. Vesemir pulls in a sharp breath. “The doctor thinks I have cancer.”

For a moment, Geralt can’t breathe. He knows what to do. Pull in a breath as soon as one leaves. But when he exhales, his lungs deflate and flatten and pinch shut, and it’s a struggle to pull anything back in.

Vesemir makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. “ _Think_. He doesn’t know yet. That’s why,” Vesemir’s brow pinches in a frown, “that’s why I had to have blood drawn. And he did a biopsy just to make sure. We’ll wait for the results and we’ll see.”

It’s too much. His throat is starting to close in on itself. His heart beats so rapidly and harshly it might break through his chest and fly out on to the floor. Lambert looks just as frozen in time as he must do; staring at the older man with his mouth opening and closing, but no noise coming out. His frown has worn away from being frustrated. His brows are pulled together, and the corners of his lips are turned down.

The sounds of Eskel moving around in the kitchen fade away. All he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears.

Suddenly, Vesemir is standing in front of him. “It might be nothing,” he assures Geralt, though the man is too far gone down already. Something terrible and cold is luring him down into darkness. He can see it starting to creep into his vision.

Vesemir reaches out, trying to catch his elbow, but Geralt jolts away. “I,” he manages to get out through his closing throat, “I, yeah, I have to—”

And he’s gone. He’s distantly aware of all of it, but the air feels like thick cotton in his mouth and the lights in the apartment and in the hallway outside sting his eyes. He’s aware of someone calling his name, but he can’t be sure who it is. All he knows is that he’s willing his legs to carry him as far away from here as they can. His hands fumble in his pockets. He managed to pick up his keys on his way out, so he heads to his car.

Jaskier is busy. He has a meeting with someone today. And while he loves the man’s housemates, he isn’t close enough to them to go there now. Not while he’s like this. Fumbling with his keys, he manages to slip into his car and start the engine. But he takes a moment to sit, curl his fingers around the steering wheel, and set his forehead against them. He wants to scream. He wants to claw at his own skin and stop his heart from trying to clamber up his throat. His skin sparks with every breath he takes; the winds outside are too cold and his clothes are scalding.

He starts the car.

* * *

Yennefer blinks as soon as the door is open. Violet eyes run over him, from head to toe, before the woman inside thins her lips. “Right,” she says in a measured tone, “come in.”

The tips of his fingers tingle and fidget by his side. The lighting of Yennefer’s apartment is a welcomed relief from the outside world. Winter makes all the boroughs shades of grey, while Yennefer’s apartment is warm and glowing. His ears prick at the sound of Ciri babbling down the hall, probably stretched out on a mat playing with her toys. He tries to measure his breathing, let it settle down, but there’s a gentle hand catching his elbow. “Geralt,” Yennefer murmurs, “what’s wrong?”

Standing in the hallway, he roots his feet to the ground. Yennefer has candles lighting somewhere. Wisps of sandalwood drift out into the hallway and skirt under his nose. And then he hears the gentle hum of the TV. Gentle, soft things that are different from the maelstrom trying to drag him under. He breathes in, struggling to keep it even. Yennefer’s frown deepens when it shakes and almost sticks in his throat. “It’s, uh,” his voice rasps, “it’s my dad. He, Eskel took him to the doctor’s, and, uh...”

He frowns. He has the words. The words haven’t stopped swirling around in his mind ever since Vesemir spoke them. It seems like hours have passed since then. He rubs a hand over his face. “Can I get a drink? Please?”

Yennefer regards him for a moment. “Water,” she nods, leading him down the hallway. Her hand doesn’t leave his elbow, and he doesn’t know whether to let it stay there or shake it off. She wouldn’t be offended if he tried to. She knows how particular he can get about touch if his mind is somewhere else. But warmth starts to bloom through where she’s holding on to him, and it could be the only thing binding him to the ground.

The living room is a mess, but he doesn’t care in the slightest. He presumes this is how it must always be when Ciri stays for a few days and nights. Her stuff has taken over Yennefer’s apartment like it has Geralt’s. The floor is taken up with playgyms and mats and her toys, while a basket of laundry sits perched on one side of the couch, long-forgotten about.

Ciri lies on a mat, idly batting some toys strung up overhead. Her head rolls to the side when she hears them step into the living room. A broad smile stretches across her face when she spots him. She reaches out, tiny and chubby hands reaching and grasping.

He doesn’t know if he can hold her. Whatever is souring his mind and blood might be too much for the baby. He doesn’t trust himself with her. But Yennefer drags him over to the couch and sits him down, pinning him there with a firm stare. _Stay_. She fishes Ciri out from her playmat and sets the girl on his lap. “Your papa isn’t feeling great, princess,” she whispers. “Could you stay with him for a moment while I get some things?”

Ciri mumbles something or other, but cranes her head up to look at him. He can’t help his arms coiling around her, gathering the baby close to him. Warmth coils through him, chasing what it can away. But the niggling thoughts still linger, stalking in the back of his mind.

Ciri frowns – or as much of a frown as she’s capable of doing. Her babbling pauses for a moment as she reaches out; setting her tiny hand on to Geralt’s cheek and patting his face. It’s enough to lure a small smile out of him, but it barely curls the corners of his lips. “Thank you, princess,” he murmurs, catching her hand in his and letting her play with his fingers. She delights in poking and tugging at his hands. She finds more joy in playing with them than any of her toys. And she likes ruining his shirts, another favourite pastime. He lets her do what she likes while Yennefer is away. But the woman comes back armed with a full glass of cold, ice water and some yoghurt.

She sits down on the couch with him, but leaves a sliver of space between them if he needs it. And he’s sure that he does. He has Ciri, and that’s enough. But if Jaskier were here, he would already be bundled up in arms and gentle assurances would be gentled into his ear.

Yennefer is methodical in how she handles him. “Drink this,” she says, handing him the glass. “Small sips.”

His mouth is dry. He only notices it the second he sets his lips against the rim of the glass and lets the first sip of water go down. He wants more, but he knows Yennefer will saddle him with a debilitating glare if he goes against her orders. Ciri squirms, but when he sets the glass down on the coffee table and goes back to playing with her, she settles.

Yennefer takes a measured breath. “Now,” she says, “tell me, what happened?”

Geralt doesn’t look at her. He spends most of his attention on Ciri, watching the girl fidget with the fabric of his tee. “Vesemir,” he says after a while, “Vesemir is sick.”

There’s a thick silence that settles over them. “Okay,” Yennefer says after a time, leaning down slightly to look at Geralt’s face. It’s stubbornly void of anything. It’s behind his face where the storm is. He’s been good at keeping everything at the surface look calm and collected. “Do they know what’s wrong?”

Geralt’s lips thin. “He went for a consultation today, and they did some tests,” he rasps. “The doctor thinks it could be cancer.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Yennefer clicks her tongue. A frown creases her brow. “I’m sorry.”

Why do people apologise for these kinds of things? He’s always wondered. It’s not the first time someone has gotten sick and been taken from him. Granted, he can’t remember the finer details of it. He was barely able to walk at that point. But he does remember the acrid scent of hospital wards and how nurses crouched down on to their haunches, offering him small sad smiles and treats and toys, in some hope that it might ease the pain. And it never did. All the apologies in the world didn’t stop his biological father from dying. And they didn’t make his mother feel any better in the days and weeks and months after that.

And they certainly didn’t help when Geralt found himself on a stranger’s porch, alone, with a stuffed animal and bag clutched to his chest.

Geralt’s lip lifts in a snarl. “Don’t be,” he grumbles. Ciri is with him. And it tempers the worst of the vile anger threatening to swell in him. She must pick up on it. Blue glistening eyes peer up at him and she babbles. He wants her to start talking. He can’t wait for her first word, and her first sentence. And all of the conversations they’ll have when she’s older. When she’ll be a teenager, she might hate him – like most teenagers do with their parents – but she’ll be with him.

A hand settles on his arm. “Geralt,” Yennefer presses, “look at me.”

He does, if through the corner of his eye.

Yennefer’s hand moves, smoothing over his skin and muscle. He’s tensed up, a lot. And it’s starting to strain and hurt. “It’s a really shitty thing that’s happened,” she says firmly, trying to etch the words into his own mind, and swat away any bad thought that could be left behind. “You’re allowed to feel like this. Don’t try and temper it. If you want to scream and shout and cry, then do it. I won’t stop you.”

He came here because his usual contacts aren’t ready for him. Jaskier is busy; though he knows that if Geralt texted, or appeared at his door in the state that he’s in, he would drop everything. And he doesn’t know if it would make him feel worse – knowing that Jaskier abandoned a meeting with a potential producer just for him. Because he couldn’t keep his emotions in check.

Yennefer has helped him before. She’s methodical. She knows to get him cold water to bring his senses back, and soft food like yoghurt because his throat tightens and it hurts to swallow. And she knows when to stare at him and tell him, firmly, that it’s okay to want to trash everything in sight. Her jaw flexes. “He’s seeing someone about it,” she assures him. Her other hand catches Geralt’s, their fingers threading together. It’s been a while since he’s looked down and seen her fingers coiled through his. “If this is...cancer, then he’s with the right people. The tests will come back, and _if_ something pops up, they’ll sort it out.”

“They’ll be able to get some treatment plans in place,” Yennefer says. “If you need help with anything, _anything_ , let me know. I’ll take Ciri for longer to free you up, or money for any treatments—”

Geralt makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Yenn—”

“—Don’t fucking interrupt me,” she squeezes his hand, just enough to get his mouth to snap shut. The violet in her eyes glints. “If you need money for treatments, I’ll help.” _And I’m **telling** you this. You have no say whatsoever_.

He looks at her. She’s a tough woman, she’s always been. Firm and blunt and able to cut through the bullshit with a sharp blade. But she can be soft, too. In the quieter moments, the facade crumbles and what’s left is the Yennefer he only got to see when they were alone together. The woman that struggled to hold back her own tears when the stress of work started to pile up, or the woman who battled fear when their daughter made her way into the world. The woman that stares back at him now is strong, strong for both of them, but through small, fragmented cracks, he can see the other woman too.

Geralt’s throat bobs. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice trembling and shaking and cracking. Ciri reaches up, scratching her fingers along the stubble covering his jaw. A small laugh rattles out of him. Ciri blinks up at him, probably wondering why the air has gotten tense and sour all of a sudden. He bounces her lightly on his lap, luring a small smile out of her.

His breathing starts to level, but his heart still quickens and skips. “Can I stay here?” he asks quietly, the words barely bumbling out through numb lips.

Yennefer nods. “Sure. I’m sure Ciri needs a playmate.”

Geralt’s lips twitch. Ciri’s toys lay scattered on the ground, stretched from her playmat to the foot of the couch, to the TV stands. He looks around. She’s moved on to coloured blocks and a xylophone – something Jaskier thought would be a great accompaniment to his guitar, much to Lambert’s annoyance. It’s enough to keep him distracted, for just enough hours to pass until he knows Jaskier is free and he can go and hide in his house instead.

* * *

The garage is familiar enough for him to lose himself in it. He doesn’t give a lot of thought to what he types on the computer. Orders are easy to fill out, and invoices to file take no time at all. It’s all mindless office work that he can do in his sleep. So he switches his mind off and lets his fingers run over the keyboard.

Roach dozes at his feet. Moving her bed underneath his desk shields her from the worst of the chill that slips in through the door opening and closing. That, and he likes having the retriever nearby. She’s more in tune with his emotions than he is. All she has to do is nudge his thigh with her head, or perch her chin on his lap, and he knows something is coming.

He manages to stay on his own for most of the day. Jaskier helped in whatever way he could. He bundled Geralt to bed, let him talk about what he needed to talk about, and let him sleep for however long he wanted. And when he came to work that morning, Eskel and Lambert said their quiet _hellos_ and everyone kept to their own business. Even now, Eskel is outside working on the underside of a car and Lambert is taking stock in the backroom. He’s sure that stock doesn’t need to be taken, but if it helps his youngest brother keep his mind off of what’s going on, then he doesn’t care how many times Lambert counts the things lining the walls.

He’s almost done with his work. If he manages to get the last reports out and done, he could go home. Or go to Jaskier’s house, at the very least. The invitation was already offered this morning. Rolling eyes and a soft sigh – _you don’t need my permission to come over, Geralt_ , Jaskier muttered. _Just come over_.

There’s a knock at the door. Looking up from the screen, and squinting at the sharp sting from having stared at it for so long, Geralt spots Eskel outside. He nods towards the garage’s main door. Someone is here for him. A new client, maybe. But they usually call first. Geralt frowns, but pushes away from his desk and shuffles out of the office. Roach pads out after him, her tail swishing from side to side. When he’s in one of his moods, she likes to keep close. And that involves braving the shrill cold outside.

The garage isn’t too busy. His brothers and Coën have their own projects scattered throughout the space. Saws and drills have stopped whining and whirling, he notices. Geralt threads his fingers through his hair, flattening stray strands back to make himself look somewhat presentable. Eskel doesn’t show him over, but does linger as he slowly walks over back to his work. He eyes the front of the garage warily.

Standing within the large hatch door of the garage is a woman. Geralt blinks as he takes her in.

To say she looks out of place is an understatement. They’re used to having all sorts of people wander into the garage; those who live in Kaedwen, and dress for it in thicker, casual clothes, and a few clients who have speciality cars, and know that Lambert and Eskel are skilled enough to know what to do with them. Geralt has seen those people wander in with their cars that don’t suit the greyscale industrial landscape of Kaedwen, who step out draped in gold and silk, padded with fur, who look like they belong on the streets of the capitals of Aedirn and Cintra.

And this woman looks like one of the latter. She’s short, barely reaching Geralt’s shoulder, with greying dark hair pulled back and swept up into an up-do. She’s armoured in a fitted suit; crimson blazer and black trousers. A darker red peacoat sits over her like a cloak, shielding her from the worst of the wind. She looks around, at the streets outside and at the interior of the garage, but mostly keeps to herself.

When Geralt approaches, she perks up a bit. “Oh,” a smile stretches across her lips. “You must be Geralt.”

Roach keeps to his side. Her tail has stopped wagging. She isn’t fond of new people, but she keeps an eye on them. “Uh, yeah,” Geralt stretches out his hand. It’s something ingrained into him and more muscle memory than anything else. The woman shakes his hand, her smile unmoving as she looks around, taking everything in. Geralt’s hand falls to his side. “And you are...?”

The woman barely bats an eyelash. “Maura Pankratz,” she says steadily. “I’m Julian’s mother.”

And for a moment, he doesn’t catch what she means. When it hits him, it takes everything he has to root his feet to the ground. _Jaskier’s mum_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll remember when I was going to destroy Geralt's happiness a few chapters ago and then thought against it because I love him too much?
> 
> (✿◡‿◡)


	32. Chapter 32

Questions swirl around. _How did she get his name? How did she find the garage he works at? How much does she know about him?_

_Where is Jaskier’s father?_

The garage has stilled behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he meets three sets of familiar eyes watching him. Eskel, Lambert, and Coën seem to all fiddle with jobs, but each of them regard Geralt and the woman carefully. If they need to intervene, they’ll be over within a matter of strides.

This isn’t where he expected to meet her. He didn’t expect to meet her at all. Jaskier’s words about her, and his whole family, flood back to him. She looks as put together and as draped in gold and silk as he described. How she holds herself is different to them; standing up that bit straighter with her head held higher than the rest of them. Geralt’s fingers fidget and curl into his hands. “Uh,” he takes a measured breath, “Mrs Pankratz.”

When certain slants of light catch the woman’s face, he sees Jaskier. He got his eyes from her; they’re the same shade of ocean blue and sparkle, despite the fact that the world outside has been drained of all of its colour. Her brow lifts. “Don’t call me that, dear. Call me Maura.” Her eyes drift down to Geralt’s hand. Even though she hasn’t seen the ring, the band scalds his skin. “Or mum.”

The smile that she wears doesn’t quite sit on her lips. It doesn’t round her cheeks, like Jaskier’s smiles do, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s disarming. Geralt sets his jaw. “What can I do for you?”

Maura nods to the street outside. “I was wondering if you and I could have a chat,” she says levelly, with not a lot of inflection on any particular word. It’s hard to read her. “We have a lot of things to talk about.”

Geralt cocks his head. “Do we?” He folds his arms over his chest, immovable. He’ll stay in the garage because that’s his domain. His brothers are here, just a call away; and probably still watching with held breath.

Maura flashes him a smile. It’s all teeth and hardly anything he would consider suitable to a mother or to a woman dressed as she is. She’s unsettling, this one. And that’s all he can take away from her. “I’ve tried contacting Julian to arrange some sort of dinner, a lunch at the very least,” she says, “but he’s been ignoring all of our calls. I wondered if I could try with you instead.”

“If Jaskier didn’t want to speak to you,” Geralt says as steadily as he can, “why do you think I would?”

Maura lifts her chin. “I imagine he has told you all sorts of things about me and my husband. If you want to believe him, that’s fine. Stay by his side. But don’t you want to see for yourself?”

Jaskier’s heart will give out if he knows about this; if he knows that his mother came to Geralt’s workplace and spoke to him. Though he doubts Jaskier would have enjoyed it more if he were here too. Geralt’s arms tighten around himself. “I’m sorry, Mrs Pankratz,” he says, “but I’m busy.”

She can see for herself. And her eyes do wander. They glance over Geralt’s shoulder and look further into the garage, to the cars parked and perched on lifts, and wires and tools strewn over and around. Eskel manages to make himself look busy, going back to rewiring something underneath a car, while Lambert fusses over an engine. But he still knows that if he called for them, they would clear the garage in a matter of strides. Maura thins her lips. “Yes, I see that.” Her voice is measured, her words clipped and articulated as finely as they do in the wealthier corners of Redania. “Have you had this garage for long?”

Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “It was my fathers,” he explains shortly. “And when he retired, I took over.”

Maura nods. “I just have to wonder why my son fell in with a mechanic, of all people,” she sighs, taking everything in. “I imagine finding someone like our Julian was a mighty step up for you.”

Something horrid and vile tightens his stomach. He knows Maura’s kind. He knows what certain areas of the boroughs are like. Some of those people come here to get their cars fixed, but don’t offer Geralt or his brothers a second glance once they’re finished. They keep to themselves and look down on anyone else. He’s frighteningly used to all of it. He lifts his chin. “And are those your words or Alfred’s?” 

It’s been a long time since Jaskier called either of his parents _mum_ or _dad_. He can’t remember a time when he did. Maybe in the first time he mentioned them. But ever since then, it’s been their given names. Jaskier has moulded a place for himself into his family, with him and his brothers and Vesemir. _That_ is his family. Not two people who have barely spoken a word to him in years and only come out of the shadows when news creeps back to them that their eldest is engaged.

Maura settles him with a look. He can feel the heat of it trying to sear his skin, but he shrugs it off. She might be half of his height and meek-looking, but he’s sure that there’s a Redanian elite streak in her. “We have to think about the family,” she says tightly.

Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of a car pulling up. Glancing over Maura’s shoulder, he spots one of their regulars to the store turning into the driveway. Geralt lifts his chin. “I’m sorry, Mrs Pankratz, but I’m busy right now,” he repeats, gesturing back to the door. “If you would like to talk to us about anything, you can contact Jaskier.”

He turns, and he’s aware of her eyes burning into his back. It might just set him on fire. But his heart quickens in his chest, even when he tries to will it to slow. “Eskel,” he calls out. “Yorick is here.”

The blonde-haired man slips out from underneath the car he’s working on and nods. He was listening. They all were – if the smirks tugging at the corners of their lips are anything to go by. But Geralt leaves, because he wants to have the last word and he doesn’t particularly want to talk to someone like Maura Pankratz for longer than necessary. When he darts back inside of the office, Roach slipping in with him, and the door clicking shut, he fishes his phone out of his pocket.

**_Geralt : Just spoke to your mother. She came to the garage_ ** _._

_Jaskier : What? How did she find it? How does she know who you are? I never even told her your name_

**_Geralt : Someone from her end must have found out._ **

They haven’t been shy with each other. On the days they walk around the streets of Redania together, it’s side-by-side and locked hands. Redania is full of terrible gossips, and anyone who could have recognised Jaskier might very well have scurried back to either of his parents to tell them what they saw. And he doesn’t put it past either of them to start digging into who Jaskier has been spotted with.

**_Geralt : I’ll pick you up when I’m finished here. Ciri is staying over tonight._ **

_Jaskier : Cool. _

And that’s the last he hears from Jaskier. He likes littering Geralt’s phone with messages throughout the day, anything from questions about dinner and what he should get to random thoughts and lyrics he wants to test out. But Geralt regards his phone throughout the day, picking it up every hour or so to swipe at the screen. Nothing. He gets texts from Yennefer, telling him that Ciri is ready to go with her bags by the door, but that’s it. His thumb hovers over Jaskier’s name. He should text him; ask him how he is and does he need anything. But if he’s too far gone, he won’t get a response anyway.

The moment the last order is filled out and sent away, Geralt stands from the desk. Roach stretches out her back and pads along by his side as he leaves the office, grabbing his jacket and keys. Eskel waits for him outside. “So,” he drawls, “that was Jaskier’s mum?”

Geralt grunts. “Apparently.”

Eskel walks with him as far as their cars, idly strolling and shaking off the shrill breeze that slips through. Lambert closes up the main doors behind them, cursing under his breath while the lock freezes in his hand. Eskel nudges his shoulder. “Hey,” he murmurs, “everything will be fine. Jaskier barely ever talks about his parents, let alone talks with them. Who cares what she thinks?”

Jaskier could care. If Geralt tells him all the things he’s heard today. It could be unleashing chaos. And Jaskier _will_ ask about it. He’ll want to know everything. And Geralt’s throat bobs at the thought of it.

* * *

The second they set foot into his apartment, Roach bounding off in front to head straight for her bed or her food bowl, Ciri cuddled against his chest and tugging at his hair, Jaskier asks.

“So,” he lilts, in the usual way he does whenever he really doesn’t want to talk about something, “what did she say?”

Ciri plays with a stray strand of his hair, curling it in her fingers. As long as she doesn’t pull it out, he couldn’t care less. And it’s his own fault for letting as much hair fall out of its ponytail. Ciri babbles, and it fills the moment of silence that settles over them for a moment. Geralt leads them to his room, setting Ciri’s bags down on the foot of his bed. “She, uh,” he fishes out some of Ciri’s things out of her bag. “She asked if we could talk. Me and her.”

Jaskier’s brows pull together. “Right,” he says slowly, dragging out the word. “And then what?”

“I told her I was busy.” _Because I was_. “And if she wanted to talk to us about us, she could contact you about it.”

Her number might very well be blocked on Jaskier’s phone. She would have better chances of trying to talk to a brick and mortar wall than contacting her own son. Ciri squirms in his arm, fussy and babbling, and reaching for whatever Geralt has in his hand. He fishes out a stuffed dinosaur for her and she clambers on to it squealing in delight. It’s enough to lure a small smile out of him. Ciri will always be there to wave the worries away.

Jaskier treads over to him, gently setting a hand on to Geralt’s shoulder. “Did she say anything else?” he asks, trying to tilt his head just so he can watch Geralt’s face.

His lips thin. He doesn’t want to say it. It’s better over acknowledged and buried six feet deep and never thought of again. But it’s been prodding the back of his mind ever since she said it. “She said,” he breathes, “that she’s worried about _the family_. Apparently, you getting married to someone like me worried her enough to come and seek me out.”

Gods only know what she might have asked of him if he even entertained the notion of speaking with her. If they _had_ gone to a lunch together, what sort of things would have slipped out of her painted lips? He can imagine. And what blinks in front of him might be his worst fears.

 _Break it off. Forget about my son. He shouldn’t be with someone like you_.

Geralt’s throat bobs.

There’s a deep sigh beside him. “The only opinions I cared about were of the girls,” Jaskier says. “And they love you. I think they love you more than I do, and that’s _a lot_. If it was up to them, they would get rid of me and move you in instead.”

Geralt’s cheeks warm with colour.

Jaskier presses closer, resting his head on Geralt’s free shoulder. “Forget about her,” he says. “I don’t care what she thinks. I’m marrying you and that’s the end of it.”

Jaskier can be stubborn, and this might be one of the few times he appreciates it. The stern look in his eyes, unwilling to be brushed away or broken, stays firmly where it is.

* * *

Ciri dozes on his chest, mouthing at her thumb and her clenched fist, while her other hand hangs on to a clump of Geralt’s tee. It’s going to be a pain to try and untangle her. When she sleeps, she _sleeps_. And her grip has gotten so good, it’s going to be a struggle to try and worm free of her. But he cradles her in his arms, holding her against him, and lets her sleep. It’s too early in the night for them to turn in, and the full dinner Eskel treated them to still hasn’t quite settled yet.

His brothers lounge in their usual places, watching some movie on the TV. Jaskier slumps against him, a hand settled on to Geralt’s thigh and his head resting against his shoulder. It’s quiet and still and calm, and everything he needed. The TV is turned down low enough to a distant hum of noise.

Geralt rests his head on Jaskier’s, listening to the steady, deep breaths the man takes as it slowly lures the last of his worries for the day out. Maura’s words still stalk in the shadows of his mind, but they’re quieter now. They’ll be gone by morning. Ciri snuffles against him, burrowing her face into the hollow of his chest. He hums, setting a hand on her back and lulling her back down into sleep. She’s getting heavier with every passing day. Her eyes are sharper and every time she babbles at him or Jaskier or anyone else, he expects a fully formed word to slip out. He’s not emotionally ready for her first word. Not yet. And she’s only seven months old.

The movie pulls into its third act – though Geralt hasn’t taken a second of it in – when his ears twitch at the sound of the front door opening. With all of them accounted for, lounging in the living room, the only other person who has keys to the apartment is Vesemir. His eyes dart to the hallway, watching the shadows until the familiar figure of his father steps inside. He shrugs off his coat, dappled with rain, and sets it over his arm.

He’s instantly aware of four pairs of eyes locked on to him. It’s been a constant ever since he came home from the hospital. “Gods alive,” he grunts, “stop watching me like I’m going to drop at any second.”

Geralt swallows. The hand settled on his thigh curls, running up and down the swell of his muscle to soothe. Jaskier lifts his chin. “How was your day, Vesemir?”

Because Jaskier isn’t related to their family – he can ask these types of mundane, distracting questions, and not get a shoe thrown at his face. Vesemir’s glower softens slightly; but his gaze has dropped to the baby curled up against Geralt’s chest. “Alright,” he sighs.

He’s tired. And he won’t admit it, but Geralt – and the rest of them – see the shadows starting to settle and gaunt his face. It’s made all the more prominent in the dim lighting of the living room. He pads into the room, heading straight for his usual couch. Lambert and Eskel still watch him out of the corner of their eye, but Jaskier sits up slightly. “I was meaning to ask,” he says lowly, mindful of Ciri dozing next to him, “but Shani and Essi want to start a garden in our backyard and have no idea where to start. Do you mind if we asked a few questions?”

And that...

Vesemir blinks. He muses over Jaskier’s request for a moment. “Sure,” he mumbles after a while, settling back into his chair.

It’s a project that will keep him busy. And it will keep him localised to Jaskier’s house – where Geralt can keep an eye on him. Maybe Vesemir is aware of that, though he doesn’t do much to argue against it.

* * *

The text comes the next day. Vesemir’s results are back and the doctor wants to meet with him. There’s a small argument – or _intense discussion_ – about who should go with him. It ends up with Vesemir biting that he’ll just go himself, that he doesn’t need his pups clambering after him like they’re children again.

Jaskier bounces Ciri on his lap, sharing a piece of toast. “All of you should go,” he offers. It earns four quirked eyebrows and curious looks. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to argue about who’s going, why don’t all of you go? You should find out together.”

Vesemir looks like he wants to argue against it. It perches on the tip of his tongue, but his jaw flexes. “Fine,” he mutters, doing up the last button on his coat and storming out into the hallway.

They’ll go, get the results, and come home. And all of this can be put behind them. That’s the plan. Geralt chants it again and again as he parts with Jaskier, pressing one last kiss to his forehead – and sparing one for Ciri too. The walk down to his car is quiet, but Eskel tries his best to make soft conversation. He asks about anything he can, clambering to catch something to earn more than a grunt or hum or one-worded answer out of the man.

The attempts continue in the car, and on the long drive over. Geralt’s fingers curled around the steering wheel and his knuckles turned white. The never-ending stretch of roads and highways lain out in front of him. The constant nagging thoughts prodding the back of his mind, trying to get his attention. He hated every second of it.

And when he pulls up in front of the medical centre, his heart hammers in his chest and tries to clamber up his throat. Vesemir eyes it just as cautiously as the rest of them, but he’s the first to snap his seatbelt off. “Right,” he grunts, “let’s go.”

It reminds him of when Lambert was a kid. Glancing back at his youngest brother, the red-haired man glances around at the sterilised white, blinding walls. His nose flares at the sharp smell of disinfectant. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, probably to stop them from shaking. Geralt catches his elbow. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. Lambert glowers at him. _I’m fine_ is perched on his tongue. But he lowers his head and follows Vesemir and Eskel to the reception.

A woman with kind eyes and a kinder voice checks Vesemir in, nodding once she’s found his appointment. “Dr Vanderbeck’s office is just down the hallway, the last door on your right,” she says, point down one of the nearby halls.

Vesemir nods and heads away, but Geralt murmurs a quiet _thanks_ under his breath. The woman nods. She must be used to brash older patients not wanting to be here. Eskel stays by Vesemir’s side while Geralt and Lambert trail behind. The clinic does look different to a hospital ward, though the smells are the same. Lambert sticks close to him, eyeing every door as if they were the consultants he spent most of his childhood seeing for everything from broken bones and cut knees to a rasping chest. He doesn’t look like the same bony child with cropped hair and wide eyes. Lambert has filled out better than any of them, and his hair is wild and curls stick out in all directions, half-tied back from his face. But now, reminded of what a hospital can smell like, he sticks to his older brother.

Vanderbeck’s office is open already, with the man sitting inside. He’s older, maybe a bit younger than Vesemir, with greying hair speckled through dark and a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He’s flicking through files and reports when Eskel knocks at the door, clearing his throat.

Vanderbeck looks up. “Ah, Vesemir, hello,” he gets up and rounds his desk, sticking a hand out to shake Vesemir’s hand. The man regards each of them. “And who these are...?”

Vesemir grunts. “My sons,” he explains, gesturing to each of them. “Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert. They came...they came for support.”

He can only imagine what they all look like – men who look nothing like each other, but gathered close to the older man. Then again, stranger families exist.

Vanderbeck nods. His expression is entirely unreadable. He wears that smile all doctors and consultants do – one that’s well-meaning and meant to brush away any anxieties, but Geralt knows that it can slip away within seconds if the news they have isn’t good. And this smile looks like it could be one of them. The doctor gestures to two chairs sat in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat. We’ll just have a little chat.”

Lambert snorts. He’s braver for doing it. Geralt wants to too. _A little chat_ never means anything good. But for appearance's sake, because Vesemir looks over his shoulder and glowers at the both of them, Geralt scolds his brother. “Shut it,” he murmurs.

Vesemir and Eskel sit in front of the doctor, dutifully still and intent on listening. Lambert lingers closest to the door, prepared to bolt once things are finished here. And Geralt doesn’t stand in his way.

The doctor turns to his computer, typing something or other out and running his eyes over the screen. He hums. “We got your results back this morning and I’ve had a look over them,” Vanderbeck explains. The computer screen and files stacked on the table are forgotten about for a moment. Instead, the man sets his hands together on the desk and settles Vesemir with a firm look. “The biopsy we sent to the labs came back, and the pathologist confirmed that there was an abnormality with the cells we took from the lymph node in your neck and those within your underarm.”

The air in the room thickens and scalds.

Vanderbeck’s lips thin. “He said that it had all the markings of Hodgkin lymphoma.” He lets the words sit among them for a moment. He must be used to delivering this kind of news. “Our next plan is to take more blood from you and conduct a scan to find out what stage we’re dealing with.”

He can’t see his father or his brother, but he can only imagine their paling and blank faces. Vesemir’s shoulders tighten. “So,” he murmurs, trying to find the words, “it’s cancer?”

Vanderbeck’s sets his jaw. “Unfortunately, yes.”

The air isn’t in the room anymore. No matter how many times he tries to pull in a breath, he can’t. Lambert is just as still next to him, leaning back on the door for support. Geralt reaches out, clutching on to the back of Eskel’s chair.

Vanderbeck nudges the report towards Vesemir. “We took some blood from you and saw that your cell count is normal,” he explains quietly, his voice taking on a gentler hum. It’s lost to the rushing in Geralt’s ears. He watches the man’s lips move, but he struggles to make out any sort of words. Vanderbeck points to a few results, drawn up in a table and on a graph. “If the blood cell count is normal, that’s a good sign. It suggests that the cancer hasn’t metastases into your bone marrow yet. But we need to find where exactly it has settled and how we plan on dealing with it.”

Lambert makes a short sound. “ _Killing_ it,” he snaps. “Kill it before it does anything to him.”

Vanderbeck regards Lambert for a moment. “We’ll do all we can.” He turns back to Vesemir. “The fact that we caught it now is good. I’ve encountered cases too late, and it’s already spread below the diaphragm and to the bone marrow.”

Vesemir draws in a steady breath. He’s as unnerved as always; steadfast and rooted to the ground. Geralt hasn’t ever known him as anything else. Maybe, fleeting afterimages blink in front of him, when Lambert was at his sickest, and lain in a hospital bed hooked up to machines that blinked and beeped, and Vesemir lost sleep staying by the boy’s side day and night, while contending with services asking him if he’s capable of looking after Lambert. But with his own mortality, Vesemir doesn’t even seem bothered. “What do we do now?”

Vanderbeck nods. “A series of tests, to determine what stage we have. The pathologist might require another blood test, and more samples from your other nodes. He might also want a bone marrow sample, but you’ll be admitted for that. After that, I’ll send you to radiology for a PET-CT and MRI to get a good look at what it looks like and how it has grown. After all of that, we’ll sort out some lung function tests and a heart evaluation; just to make sure they’re working as they should be.”

Eskel leans forward slightly, settling his clutched hands on to his knees. “That seems like a lot to put him through.” And there’s nothing Vesemir hates more than being talked about as if he isn’t there. But he must be too far gone into his own mind if he doesn’t glower at his son.

Vanderbeck spreads his hands. “We just want to be thorough. Hodgkin’s can run away on you if you aren’t careful.” He looks to each of Vesemir’s sons. “Your father is in the right hands now. Those treated for this type of cancer do very well. It’s certainly treatable. And we can discuss treatment plans once we know what we’re dealing with.”

Geralt looks over to Lambert. A deep scowl is etched into his face. His jaw clenches, and his arms crossed over his chest tightens. Geralt settles a hand on to Eskel’s shoulder. The man tenses for a moment before relaxing slightly. “It’ll be alright,” he murmurs, glancing over to Vesemir. The elder looks over his shoulder, regarding his eldest son for a moment. Geralt nods. “We’ll get the tests done and then start treatment, and you’ll be okay.”

Vesemir muses over the words for a moment, before exhaling as steadily as he can. “Alright,” he rasps, turning back to Vanderbeck. “Let’s get going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp.


	33. Chapter 33

He can’t stand the look. The certain look people have in their eyes when terrible news spreads and they don’t know how to go about apologising for it happening. He could do without it, if he’s being honest. Jaskier is a distraction; though he still looked at Geralt in that way for the first few days. Questions perched on the tip of his tongue. _Are you alright? Do you need anything?_ He appreciates it. Jaskier cares. But he just doesn’t need it right now.

While whatever tests could be done that day are done and sent off, and Vesemir slinks home with Eskel acting as a shadow, Geralt curls into Jaskier and is loath to leave his bed. Ciri snoozes in her cot next to them, blissfully ignorant of everything going on around her. And what he wouldn’t give to be the same. Thoughts churn around in his head, whispering against the shell of his ear, and Jaskier humming softly under his breath, threading his fingers through Geralt’s hair seems to be enough to ward most of them away. When they do happen to slink near him, stalking forward from the shadows, he burrows deeper into Jaskier’s side in some hope that the thoughts will go away and leave him alone.

Jaskier’s arm tightens around his shoulders, gathering him close. His laptop sits on his thighs, blankets pulled up and swaddled around the both of them. A movie plays just loud enough for them to hear, but not enough to wake Ciri; though her naps have been getting longer recently because of her ability to sleep through a hurricane. She whimpers and tosses and turns in her cot, but she doesn’t wake up. And Geralt silently thanks her for it. He doesn’t think he’d be able to hold her. Not just yet. As soon as he stepped back into the apartment, and Jaskier saw the coloured drained from his face and his breath thin and rasping, he bundled Ciri close, sang her to sleep, and put her in her cot.

Heavy blankets sit over them, enough pressure to keep Geralt in the moment and focused on now. Jaskier’s touch helps too. The movie is long forgotten about – some fluff flick about a generic character moving to a new city and meeting the person of their dreams. Geralt has lost all interest in it, preferring to keep his attention on the slow rhythmic rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest. Neither of them moves to pause the movie and close Jaskier’s laptop, though. It just adds to the gentle hum of noise within the room.

He prefers spending moments like these with Jaskier. The man is fond of his questions. The first few weeks and months of them dating were nothing but Jaskier poking and prying into everything he could think of asking Geralt, luring as much as he could out of the man. But now, when he knows what must be swirling around in Geralt’s head, his tongue stays still and silent, and he just offers to be there. He lets the quiet stretch on for as long as it needs to, until Geralt mumbles the first words.

He curls his fingers into the fabric of Jaskier’s tee. Soft and warm and smelling just like him. Geralt burrows his head further into the hollow of the man’s neck. “Everything is shit,” he murmurs.

Jaskier hums. His fingers skim along Geralt’s back and shoulders, tracing idle patterns.

 _Don’t say that you’re sorry_. The thought passes through Geralt’s mind. He wouldn’t be angry if Jaskier said it. If it came from him, he could maybe stomach it. But he watched it come from too many people throughout his life over many different things, and he’d rather not have to listen to it drone on again.

Jaskier catches his hand, slowly curling their fingers together. “What’s going on in your head?” he whispers, as if the man’s thoughts were physical things keeping to the shadows of the room, and not wanting to startle them. Jaskier’s hand holds his firmly. “What is it telling you?”

Geralt takes a few measured breaths. “That the tests will come back bad,” he manages. “That the...the _thing_ will be too far gone to do anything about it. That I’ll...”

Jaskier clicks his tongue, bringing Geralt’s hand up to his lips. He presses a light kiss to the back of it. “It’s alright,” he soothes. “If you want to talk it out with me, you can. If you don’t, that’s cool too. I just want to know where you’re at.”

And that’s why he’s different. People skirted around him when he was a quiet and shy pup. He was _mute_ , unsure of what was happening and why he was being dropped off on to a stranger’s doorstep. Where was his Ma? People apologised, fluffing out their sentences with how difficult everything must have been for him, and how brave he was for going through all of it on his own.

Jaskier doesn’t do any of that. He isn’t wary or afraid of the shadows in Geralt’s mind. He isn’t afraid of prodding through them, trying to find the monsters whispering terrible things to Geralt whenever he’s left alone.

“You said it yourself,” Jaskier assures. “The doctor said that Vesemir’s blood tests looked okay. It’s a good sign that it hasn’t gotten anywhere else. His tests will come back fine and after some treatment, he’ll be back to being the grumpy old git we all love so much.”

Neither of them says the word. The _thing_. _It._ Cancer. It’s horrid and stings Geralt’s tongue and he hates even thinking about it. Geralt takes a steadying breath. He tries to assure himself that everything is fine. Vanderbeck didn’t look particularly worried – he just wanted to get Vesemir checked out within the week in order to figure out what stage they were dealing with. And apparently a plan of treatment might already be in place.

Jaskier doesn’t stop gentling touches over him. “Do you need anything?”

Geralt tightens the arm slung over the other man. It’s enough of an answer. Jaskier bundles him close, sighing into his hair and settling into the bed. Ciri barely mutters or mumbles in her cot, and fishing her out of it for a feed is in the back of his mind. But for now, he’s content to just merge into Jaskier’s side and forget about everything else beyond the walls of his room.

* * *

“You don’t have to come everywhere with me,” Vesemir grunts as he falls into the passenger seat of Geralt’s car. “It’s like having you as boys again. I could never get a moment’s peace with you all following me around everywhere.”

Geralt turns his keys, starting the car. “I seem to remember you not minding that much. Otherwise you wouldn’t have adopted three of us.”

Lambert snorts. Sat in the back with Eskel, he looks up from his phone. “Rookie mistake, old man. You were outnumbered from day one.”

“You were in diapers at the time, boy,” Vesemir grumbles. “You could hardly stand up and talk, let alone hold your own.”

Lambert gets quiet, turning back to his phone and typing out a flurry of texts. Geralt eyes the rear-view mirror, watching a faint smile ghost his brother’s lip. “Dates going well?” he asks, pulling out on to the road and heading off. Because if they can make Lambert feel embarrassed and jeer him on for his first flurry of dates in gods only know how long, they don’t have to talk about the fact that they’re heading to find out the results of Vesemir’s tests.

Even the old man seems keen to find out. He looks over his shoulder. “Dates? Who have you been dating?”

Even though the greyscale winter scenes outside are lost on colour, and seem to drain it out of everything, a blush does manage to warm Lambert’s cheeks. One he tries to hide by ducking his head. “No one,” he mutters.

Eskel crows a sharp laugh. “His name is Aiden,” Eskel floods. “He works in some law firm in downtown Novigrad.”

Lambert glowers at his older brother. Geralt hums. “Wonder if Yennefer knows him...”

“Do _not_ ask her!” Lambert barks. He’s one very small step away from kicking the back of Geralt’s seat. And all at once, they’re bickering pups again – with a long-suffering Vesemir rolling his eyes and burying his face in his hands. But out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches a small smile ghost his lips.

The medical centre seems to fade into the rest of the buildings in the district. It’s modern, gleaming metal and polished concrete, with vast windows that look out on to the streets and neighbouring buildings. In the courtyards outside of the buildings stood freshly planted trees, neatly kept, with bushels of flowers blooming under them. Even in the beginnings of winter, with colour seeping out of most things and plants starting to wither away and die, he does have to give Redania credit for trying to keep some colour around. Eskel and Lambert pile out of the car first, still bickering and nipping at each other. When their doors shut, and Geralt sits with his father, alone, he takes a measured breath. “I’m not even going to ask are you okay,” he murmurs, looking down at his fidgeting hands resting on his lap. “I wouldn’t insult you like that. But...I want you to be okay. Everything _will_ be okay.”

A soft laugh huffs out of the elder. “Are those Jaskier’s words?”

Geralt pauses for a moment. “Maybe,” he shrugs. Because they’re kind words that he parted the man with, assurances that everything would be fine, and that they’ll get through whatever it was that awaited for them. Geralt isn’t good at making his own words; so until he’s able to muster up his own, he’ll borrow Jaskier’s.

Vesemir hums, musing. “Well, I appreciate them.” They haven’t spoken about it. _It_ and what comes after _it_. And that’s Vesemir being himself. He won’t quite deny what’s going on, but he just wants to move on and not even mention it. He looks out on to the courtyard spanning in front of the clinic – at the steady stream of people flowing in and out of it. People just like him, wondering what waits for them and how much of their lives are going to change.

Vesemir’s throat bobs. “You were all so good,” he rumbles after a moment. “I couldn’t have asked for better boys. You put me through the wringer, and I lost sleep over all of you, but I wouldn’t change any of it.”

Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. “Stop talking like that,” he murmurs. _Like you’re staring down death and you’ll never see us again_.

Vesemir huffs a short laugh. Eskel and Lambert wait for them, folding their arms over their chests and staving off the cold. Neither of them rushes them. They must know what they’re talking about. And neither of them will try and rush Vesemir.

The elder turns to Geralt, setting his hand on his shoulder. “We’ve dealt with worse, hmm?” he says a bit stronger.

Geralt’s lips thin. “Much worse.”

When they step out into the cold, Vesemir bundles his coat and scarf tighter around himself. Eskel wanders near him, hands shoved into his pockets. “Ready?” he murmurs through his scarf covering his mouth and nose. Geralt joins the rest of them, all standing together in the face of the clinic.

Vesemir takes a steady, deep breath. “Ready,” he says, before taking the first step.

* * *

It’s a lot of words at once, and it’s a struggle to keep track of all of it. Vanderbeck is slow with them, making sure they all understand one thing before moving on to another. He speaks mostly to Vesemir, holding the man’s gaze; but he does glance around his office, looking to each of them as he explains what he found and what he plans to do about it.

Geralt’s heart quickened and slowed and quickened again. Stage II. He would prefer it lower. He would prefer it if it weren’t there _at all_. But Vanderbeck quickly assures him that _It_ is localised to above his diaphragm and hasn’t spread anywhere else. Nodes in his neck and under his armpit. Two localised areas, and it’s nowhere else. It’s good news. He knows that. And it helps him breathe that bit easier. But his eyes are locked on to the back of Vesemir’s head. He’s still and silent and lets Vanderbeck rattle on about what their next plan is.

The doctor sets his clasped hands on to his desk and explains slowly and clearly. “We usually would take age and general health into consideration,” he says, looking mostly to Vesemir, making sure he understands what is being said, but he does glance at the other three men in the room too. “You _are_ older than what we would like, but you’re otherwise fit and well. And the cancer is localised to two small areas. It’s very treatable.”

Lambert is the one to speak next. And Geralt keeps him in the corner of his eye. He might hate being in a clinic and hospital setting, and the smells and noises make him flinch, but his arms are folded tightly over his chest and he seems to be grounded just fine. “What are we talking? Surgery, chemo?”

Vanderbeck’s lips thin. “We don’t recommend surgery. A few rounds of chemotherapy are more likely, and more effective. We can schedule when you would like to start, but I should inform you of the side-effects you might experience.”

Vesemir nods. “I know them,” he rumbles. “I’ve seen people go through it before.”

Geralt’s throat tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move, but keeps his hand firmly curled around the back of Vesemir’s chair and keeps watch over the man.

Vanderbeck nods again, turning to his computer. “I’ll contact the oncologist in our sister clinic and he’ll gather a team for you.” He regards Vesemir out of the corner of his eye. “It’s good that we caught this now. Hodgkin’s is a slippery slope. Your prognosis looks good.”

Lambert lifts his chin. “Is there a chance this could come back?” he asks, in a voice more timid than Geralt would like to hear from him. “Would he ever be cured?”

The doctor finishes up his report and sets his hands back on the table. “There is a chance,” he agrees sagely, “but it’s uncommon. On the slim chance that it does come back, your father would be under our observations for the next five years anyway, so we could spot it earlier and intervene.”

Vesemir sighs. Nothing he hates worse than being talked about as if he isn’t in the room. He looks over to Lambert. For a brief moment, they’re the struggling middle-aged father and the sickly, scared young boy again, way out of their depths in a hospital office. “I’ll be okay, Lam,” he assures, before turning back to the doctor. “When can we get started?”

“As soon as a team is gathered, you can start your sessions. I’ll call you in a few days to let you know, but it should be by next week.”

It’s all so quick and slipping away from them all. Eskel is as quiet as ever, taking in as much information as they can. Lambert bristles and hangs his head, glowering down at the scuffs on his boots. And Geralt is half-frozen, feet somehow rooted to the ground and holding him up.

 _They have a plan. It’s treatable. Everything will be okay_.

He can’t count the number of times he repeats the mantra in his head. He repeats it when Vanderbeck sees them off from the clinic. He repeats it even when they get back home, and a sombre sort of silence has settled over them. Coats are shed by the door and keys rustled, and eventually, Geralt’s ears prick at the sound of Ciri and Jaskier in a murmured conversation in the living room. “I think your papa is home, princess,” Jaskier mumbles, softly padding out into the hallway with the girl. He’s shielded, but he watches each and every one of them standing there.

Ciri babbles and coos as soon as she spots her dad, granddad, and her uncles all standing clumped together. And the sight of her half-stretching out of Jaskier’s arms, reaching out to grab on to Geralt, manages to lure smiles out of them. They’re faint, but the mood lightens; if only slightly.

Jaskier hands over Ciri, letting the girl bundle and claw into Geralt’s arms. She babbles on and on, possibly telling him about her own day spent with Jaskier, and he gently bobs her up and down. Jaskier looks at each of them, his fingers fidgeting by his side.

Vesemir clears his throat. “I have cancer, but it’s treatable,” he murmurs to the man when he passes, settling a hand on to Jaskier’s shoulder. It lingers for a moment longer than it usually would. He squeezes Jaskier’s shoulder before slipping away, shuffling down the hallway and into the living room, out of sight.

Jaskier swallows thickly. “Are you all alright?” he murmurs, looking to Eskel and Lambert. He knows how Geralt is. He knows that sleep has been avoiding him, and he’s awake when Jaskier goes to sleep at night and he’s awake when he wakes up in the morning. He wonders if he ever sleeps at all. But with Ciri bundled against him, trying to tug some strands of hair out of its tie, it’s a struggle to stay sour for too long.

Lambert glowers like usual, and his lips press into a thin line. “As good as we can be with our dad having cancer.”

Eskel scowls at him. “It’s being _treated_ ,” he snaps. Turning to Jaskier, his expression smoothens out. “We’re fine. Thank you for looking after Ciri.”

Jaskier just about manages not to roll his eyes. “It wasn’t a hardship,” he murmurs, setting his hand on Geralt’s forearm. He skirts his thumb over the muscle, gentling and assuring. Eskel and Lambert pad towards the living room and kitchen, muttering among themselves about something or other. Ciri sets her head against Geralt’s shoulder, gnawing quietly on her fist. She’s blissfully unaware of the chaos around her, and any of them would kill to have that sort of innocence. Jaskier runs the back of his finger over her round cheek, watching her eyelids grow heavier and heavier and begin to droop.

When Geralt speaks, his voice is nothing more than a quiet murmur. “I’m sorry about Lambert. He...he doesn’t deal well with these kinds of things.”

And he doesn’t know much of Lambert’s past, only because the man would never tell him. And he doesn’t feel comfortable luring that kind of information out of Geralt. So Jaskier thins his lips and nods. “It’s alright. I’m used to him being him.” It’s offered through a light laugh; one that Geralt quietly hums with.

Jaskier catches his elbow, gently tugging him away from the door to the apartment. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get something to eat and we can take it easy for the rest of the night.”

And Geralt almost breaks there and then. Jaskier is different from everyone else. He can appreciate _this_ ; the mundane of just having dinner and trying to shrug the shit off from the day they’ve had. No _I’m sorry_ messages pushed through put-on apologetic faces or annoying, constant assurances that they’ll pull through this. Just an acknowledgement that things are shit, and that they’ll just move on.

He takes a measured breath, offering the most reassuring smile he can offer Jaskier. The other man doesn’t look that convinced, but Jaskier knows when to let it lie. Ciri bumbles something against his shoulder. “Come on then, sprout,” he rumbles, lightly rocking her. “Let’s go and see what your Uncle Eskel is doing in the kitchen.”

* * *

The phone calls come intermittently throughout the day; as far as Geralt knows, anyway. During the day, when he’s at the garage staring at a computer screen, and away from Jaskier, he doesn’t know how many calls the man could get lodged into his phone. But when they’re back together again, either in Geralt’s apartment or in Jaskier’s house, he watches the man’s phone out of the corner of his eye. It buzzes and Jaskier is always quick to swipe the call as _cancel_ , or just let the call ring out.

In some attempt at keeping Geralt’s mood over a certain threshold, Jaskier texts him while he’s at work.

_Jaskier : Italian or Spanish?_

**Geralt : As in food?**

_Jaskier : No, as in men_

_Jaskier : Of course I mean food, dumbass_

**Geralt : Either or is good. You can choose. **

_Jaskier : You’re always so helpful x_

It’s a date. Jaskier puts himself in charge of planning most of them. Mainly because any time Geralt brings them somewhere, he doesn’t classify it so much as a date, rather them just hanging out. Jaskier lures him to restaurants and out to the movies, and on a handful of occasions, to a local poetry open-mic night where he, of course, had to participate in.

For all that he hates the colder weather and the way the boroughs seem to freeze at the first flake of snow hitting the ground, he can appreciate the dazzling lights and decorations strung up around each borough. He remembers Vesemir bundling them into his car when they were little, and how they gaped up at the twinkling lights strung over their heads on the electrical wires, and how the snow stacked higher in the northern boroughs than the others. Even though sunlight might be scarce in the winter, the warm glow of lights more than make up for it.

But the thought of going out is already exhausting him. He didn’t have any energy to begin with; barely able to roll out of bed and get himself ready for work. Work was a distraction, but once his jobs were done for the day, he just headed home. And with Jaskier away for a few hours, he poured all of his time into Ciri – and then Ciri went down for her nap. He’s not going to deny he perched on the edge of her bed and watched over her, for lack of anything else to do, to keep his mind busy, but he’s lost.

Jaskier arrives with the others, bundling into the apartment alongside Eskel and Lambert and laughing lightly at some story Lambert must have told outside. Geralt slips out of his room, peering down the hall and eyeing some takeout bags by Jaskier’s side. All of them head into the living room, chattering among themselves. Geralt follows like a shadow, drifting by Jaskier when he goes to the dining table and sets the bags down on to it.

“I thought Eskel would probably kill me,” he murmurs as soon as Geralt stands next to him, peering into every bag. “But I figured you could all use a bit of a break. And he’s alright with not cooking tonight.”

Eskel cooks because he likes to. And he cooks when he’s stressed. He would spend more time in the kitchen than normal, pouring into every little detail and making what should be a thirty-minute cooking time last hours. If he can shut out the whole world outside by keeping to the kitchen, he would. And Geralt is often loath to disturb him.

Eskel wanders back with glasses gathered in one hand and beer bottles in another. Stacking the table full of food – Italian, Geralt notices – and beer takes time, but they’re meticulous about it. Lambert just about manages to steal a bread roll, slipping out of the range of Jaskier’s batting hands. “Wait your turn, you fucking vulture,” the man grumbles, setting the last of the boxes on to the table before putting the bags away.

Lambert offers Jaskier a small smile, mouth mostly stuffed with bread, but he dutifully takes his seat when Eskel shoves it out for him and glares at it. Meals together have always been a hum of noise. Chatter will bloom between them and linger throughout the meal; whether it’s an argument brewing between Eskel and Lambert about something or other, or Jaskier telling a story and keeling the others over in laughter. And it’s the same now. Something blossoms from Jaskier, keen to keep the mood light and airy and ignoring the storm hanging over all of them.

Geralt picks at his food, until Jaskier nudges his knee underneath the table. _Eat your damn food_. Jaskier doesn’t even have to say it. But he does watch Geralt out of the corner of his eye, regarding him for a moment before setting his knee against Geralt’s. Heat blooms through his jeans and worms into his skin and muscle and bones. It eases the last of the tension trying to knot his shoulders and back; and for a brief moment, he can look down at his food and think positively that he can eat most of it without his stomach churning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really dragging Geralt (of) Rivia head-first through a wringer, huh... I also cannot believe that Yennefer and Jaskier are legit holding this family together 🥰
> 
> [a very small annoyance i have rn that i somehow managed to include this Continent world with real-world things (like Italian food) but like...just ignore it pls lmao]


	34. Chapter 34

Ciri is so blissfully ignorant of everything going on around her, he’s almost envious. He watches her sprawled out on to her playmat, batting toys hanging over her and flipping on to her stomach to wiggle around. Geralt watches her in an almost trance-like state, ignoring most of the commotion throughout the rest of the apartment. The arguing is kept to a low level. At least his brothers and father can be mindful of a baby being in the apartment – and the last thing anyone needs right now is an upset Ciri.

The treatments are starting today. They know what’s going on and how often they’re going to happen. And Vanderbeck made sure they all knew that only one person can go with Vesemir, just because of the size of the clinic’s treatment rooms. So the arguments started. Not about who would go, because they all unanimously agree that it should be Eskel. Lambert bowed out the moment he found out that he would have to sit in a clinic for hours on end, and while he loved his father, he couldn’t stomach that length of time inside a hospital setting. And Geralt has Ciri. Jaskier will be over later and, gods bless him, he offered to take care of the baby himself, but Geralt couldn’t bring himself to keep saddling the man with the care of his own daughter. Having Ciri around helps temper the worst of his anxiety. When she’s cradled against him, or he’s down on the floor with her, sprawled out and playing with coloured blocks and electronic musical instruments, it’s enough to keep his worry at bay.

The argument is mainly about Vesemir wanting to go by himself; about not _encumbering_ one of his sons to sit beside him for hours on end while he goes through his first round of chemo. Geralt regards the kitchen for a moment, knowing that it’s now a no man’s land and going inside would be a death wish.

Eventually, gods only know how long later, Vesemir shuffles out of the kitchen alongside Eskel, both of them wrapped in their winter coats and scarves. Vesemir pads over. He’s been tired recently, losing sleep during the night and reclaiming it throughout the day. Shadows have started to gaunt his face and settle underneath his eyes, darkening his skill and hollowing him out. But he manages to draw a smile over his face just as he reaches Ciri’s mat, crouching down with a small, barely contained grunt, to run the back of his finger against her cheek. She babbles and coos; completely unaware of what’s happening around her.

Vesemir laughs breathlessly. “You mind your papa now, young lady. Do you hear me?” The elder peers up at Geralt. “He can be a terrible worrier.”

Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile. “Go on,” he nods to the door, “before I drive you there myself.”

 _I’ll be fine_. It goes unsaid, but the elder nods and winces as he stands. Bones groan and protest and his joints click. The sharp winter winds haven’t been kind to any one of them. Old injuries flare up and throb and groan. But Vesemir is particularly sore and stiff, though he doesn’t complain.

Eskel has a bag slung over his shoulder. Books, his laptop. Anything they could think of to make the hours of treatment go by that bit quicker. They all presumed Vesemir wouldn’t be up to talking to most of them for that length of time, so best bring things for him to do while they wait. Eskel tightens his scarf around his neck. Snow will start to fall later. “Ready?” he mumbles through the fabric stretched over his mouth and nose.

Vesemir sighs. “Yeah, let’s go,” he mutters, turning on his heel and striding towards the hall. He’s gone before he, or anyone else, can say anything. And that’s his way of dealing with it, they all suppose. Geralt watches the space where his father once stood, musing over his words for a moment. He peers down at Ciri; craning her neck back to look up and blink at him.

Gods alive, he does wish he could be her sometimes.

* * *

Jaskier is another distraction. He comes over in the afternoon when Ciri is lain down for her usual nap. Just before anything cold can creep up on him, Geralt hears the door click shut and he knows that Jaskier is finally here.

He greets Geralt with a chaste kiss at the door of the apartment and sets his hands on the man’s chest. “How are you?” he mumbles against Geralt’s lips, trying to duck away as best as he can when Geralt’s arms start to coil around him and one kiss becomes two and three.

Eventually, after a few fruitless attempts to lure the man’s lips back to his, Geralt sighs and sets their foreheads together. “Better now that you’re here,” he murmurs, brushing the tips of their noses together. The apartment is still and silent and all Geralt can hear is their synced breathing.

Jaskier’s smile stretches across his lips. “Sweet man,” he grins, leaning in for one chaste kiss and pulling away. He catches one of Geralt’s hands and brings them into the living room. The place is a mess, but when isn’t it these days? Ciri’s things take up a permanent home sprawled across the floor with some of her toys piled up against the arm of the couch. Jaskier squeezes his hand. “Are they home yet?”

He doesn’t have to mention who. Geralt shakes his head.

Jaskier nods. “Alright then,” he muses, pulling them over to the couch. Jaskier flops down on to it like he usually does; waiting for Geralt to join him so that he can strewn his legs over the man’s thighs. One of Jaskier’s arm rests against the back of the couch, with his fingers dusting along Geralt’s far shoulder. “So,” he hums, lifting his chin. “Do you need to talk about anything?”

It isn’t long before the fingers ghosting along his shoulders drift up along his nape and curl into his hair. Geralt’s eyelids threaten to flicker closed at the small hum of pleasure that rings through him. “No,” he mutters, leaning back against Jaskier’s hand. He watches the man’s face; familiar blue eyes scrutinising his as he tries to make sure that Geralt is telling him the truth, and not just pushing him away because it’s easier. Everything the man knows about how Geralt is feeling now is because Geralt _has_ told him; in the quiet midnight hours in their bed, with Jaskier threading his fingers through Geralt’s hair and a firm arm holding him close, he laid his soul bare. Anything and everything he could vocalise, it was all presented to Jaskier and they walked through it all together.

Jaskier hums. He doesn’t sound entirely convinced. Maybe the sliver of something is hiding in the shadows of Geralt’s mind. Maybe something will come tonight to whisper against the shell of his ear. Until then, though, he relaxes back into Jaskier’s touch.

Ciri has been asleep for only a few minutes. They still have an hour to go before he’ll have to get her up for a meal. But that’s for a future him to worry about. Geralt reaches forward and grabs just enough of Jaskier’s shirt to drag him forward. A breathless laugh manages to escape Jaskier before he’s kissed and pulled closer. His arm loops around Geralt’s shoulders while he settles his other hand on the man’s cheek. It’s rough and scratchy with stubble that he probably should shave at some point, but Jaskier’s thumb dusts over it and he deepens their kiss.

It’s been a while since he’s been aware enough to feel the familiar thrum of pleasure blooming through him. Where he can lure sounds out of Jaskier by letting his hands span and clutch at every stretch of skin he can reach. A noise slips out of Jaskier’s throat as he moves closer, all but clambering on to Geralt’s lap and winding his arms around his shoulders and neck.

Gods only know how much time is lost. Kisses change from chaste pecks along their jaws and necks to delving ones with tongue; hands wander and palm and tug closer. At the first roll of Jaskier’s hips against his, they hear it.

The rattling vibration of Jaskier’s phone on the coffee table behind them. Geralt breaks their kiss, his brows furrowing for a moment. “Do you want—?”

Jaskier’s eyes just about manage not to roll. “Ignore it,” he murmurs, bringing Geralt in for another kiss. It’s deep and toe-curling and Geralt struggles not to catch the back of his legs and lay him out along the couch. His room is out of bounds, with Ciri sleeping quite peacefully in there. And he can’t remember the last time he’s had the other man against him, rolling and grinding their hips together.

The phone buzzes again. And again. And again. Eventually, Geralt’s hands settle on Jaskier’s hips and he stills the man from moving. He hates parting with him, but just as the phone buzzes again, he knows that this won’t be stopping any time soon.

Jaskier reaches back with a barely concealed huff. He glares at his phone, turning it off completely, before gathering Geralt’s jaw in his hands and going back to kissing him.

He doesn’t want to talk about it. And that’s fine. If he wants to stay here and kiss and hold and grind against him for the foreseeable future, that is _more_ than fine with Geralt. He leaves his hands on Jaskier’s hips, holding and guiding, as the man moves over him. He gathers Geralt close and kisses the air out of him. His hips rock and grind and he can feel both of them hardening within their jeans.

Jaskier moans into their kiss. A hand parts with his hip, travelling along his waist and the small of his back, dipping down to palm at his ass. Geralt pulls him closer. He can feel his core starting to coil and tighten. He’s desperate to get his hands on Jaskier, on some stretch of skin so he can feel the familiar warmth of him.

Jaskier shrugs off his plaid shirt, with the tee underneath quickly following. In the few seconds that their lips are parted, Geralt catches the end of his own tee and wrangles it off of himself. Clothes are flung across the couch, some tumbling down on to the floor. They’re forgotten about as soon as the clothes are out of sight. He needs their jeans gone too. His ears twitch at the sound of a door clicking shut. He doesn’t want to part with Jaskier’s lips. They’re too warm and plush against his own, and the first scrape of teeth pulling at his lips is sinful and has his heart hammering in his chest, but footsteps follow and suddenly there’s a throat clearing. 

Jaskier whips his head around towards the hall. Geralt peers over the man’s shoulder.

Lambert stands at the mouth of the hallway, still and blinking for a moment. “Don’t mind me,” he hums, continuing his walk towards the kitchen. He sets his keys and bag down and grabs whatever he came in for.

Jaskier slips away from him. Geralt just about manages to swallow the whine crawling up his throat; but the other man doesn’t go too far away. He slips from Geralt’s lap, falling into the small sliver of space by his side and pressing up against him. Without him perched on him and covering, cold air nips at their skin and Geralt tries to suppress a shiver.

Lambert takes his time gathering what food and drinks he needs from the kitchen. When he eventually steps back out, his arms are full and almost spilling. “Don’t stain the couch,” he lilts, “it was expensive.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. He expected the man to be out for another hour, at least. But of course it would be Lambert to be done early and home, without so much as texting him. Familiar fingers card through his hair. Geralt tilts his head, looking to the other man. Jaskier sends him a soft smile. “Well,” he sighs, “that put a damper on things.”

Geralt snorts. His hands wander, drifting over Jaskier’s leg still slung over his lap, and palming the swell of muscle in his thigh. “Not that I’m complaining,” he rumbles, watching Jaskier’s eyes flicker between his and his lips, a thought briefly passing through his mind to continue on where they left off, “but what was that all about?”

A small smile twitches the corners of Jaskier’s lips. “Can I not kiss you anymore?” he asks, brushing his nose against Geralt’s.

Softer touches and shared breaths have his chest tightening. Surely Jaskier can feel and hear how hard his heart is hammering in his chest. Devious little thing is trying to lure him back. And Geralt would go gladly, if the worry of his brother walking back into the living room didn’t take up most of his mind. “Of course you can,” he says, nudging the tips of their noses and luring a firmer smile out of the other man. “But it’s been a while since you’ve pinned me to a couch.”

Jaskier makes a face. “I’d hardly call _that_ pinning.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. He hums and says nothing else about it. They could continue, but knowing Lambert, he’ll wander back out soon enough for more food and more comments perched on his tongue about the two of them grinding each other into the couch. Gods alive he wants to. It’s been too long since he’s had Jaskier all to himself. He can’t deal with any more quick romps in the shower or at night when the world is asleep; and they’re quiet and steal moments to themselves, but he would give anything to take Jaskier back to Pont Vanis and devour him whole there.

And life hasn’t been kind to either of them recently. He spares a quick look at the man’s phone. “Was that your mum?” he asks, craning away from Jaskier just enough to pluck their tees up from the floor.

Jaskier must spot what he’s doing, because the man sighs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. When Geralt hands him his shirt, Jaskier takes it with a slight pout. Whether it’s for Geralt bringing up his phone or the fact that his advances have been pushed right back to the start, Geralt isn’t sure. But his lark doesn’t seem to be in the greatest of moods.

Wrangling his shirt back on, just in case any more of his family decide to come home and see them, he’s quick to gather a now re-clothed Jaskier back into his arms. He pouts and avoids Geralt’s gaze, preferring instead to pick at the neckline of Geralt’s tee. “What’s going on?” Geralt mumbles, trying to tilt his head just enough to catch the man’s eye.

Jaskier stubbornly keeps his gaze away. Gods alive, he’s dreading when Ciri is grown. He’s staring down the barrel of her teenager years like he’s stood in front of a firing squad. Jaskier can be stubborn and can burrow into himself when he doesn’t want to talk about things. And Geralt has seen it all. He’s been there to lure what he can out of the other man, piece by piece until he can figure out what it is that’s bothering Jaskier. And it’s been painful at times. Jaskier only ever lets cracks of information slip every few hours, and building an image of what could be wrong takes time and patience.

Jaskier fidgets with the neck of his shirt for a moment, chewing his lip and the inside of his cheek. “She just said some things,” he murmurs after a while. The words sit between them for a moment. “About you. About us. I don’t know why she cares so much. If she really doesn’t want to give the inheritance to me then just give it to Izzy.”

It’s a strange thing, hearing the names of Jaskier’s siblings. To this day, after over a year of knowing each other, he isn’t quite sure how many siblings Jaskier has – or even that he had any at all. He drops the names of people sometimes, and Geralt doesn’t ask. For all the shit he’s experienced with his parents, he doesn’t seem to hiss or snarl out his siblings' names at all. Their names are kinder and soft spilling out from his lips.

But he does know of Izzy. Isabel, who was born years after Jaskier, with such a monumental age gap between them that he’s sure that the girl is only now ten-years-old while Jaskier is in his late-twenties. He doesn’t know what she looks like. Jaskier doesn’t keep many pictures of his family, certainly not of his parents. But he can only imagine her as a smaller version of Jaskier; brilliant blue eyes and chocolate hair that tumbles down on to her shoulders. He worries for Izzy. He worries that the things she hears about Jaskier will be distorted, and so will the view of him from her. He hopes that if Jaskier can have one good relationship with someone from his family, it would be with his sister; not that either of their parents will let her out of their sight around Jaskier and him, knowing what kinds of difficulties they're having right now.

Geralt hums, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair away from Jaskier’s eyes. He can only imagine the kinds of things she’s been saying about them. Gods alive help them if she somehow managed to find out the full extent of the strange family they’ve built for themselves; Geralt and Jaskier are engaged, while Geralt has a daughter with an ex-girlfriend who is still very much his friend. And Jaskier is practically a step-father at this point, regardless of whether a ring sits around his finger or not. Ciri adores him and both she and Geralt need him to stay. Who knows what would happen if he were ever taken away.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “It’s fine,” he shrugs a shoulder, “I don’t care what she says anyway.”

Yennefer had problems with her parents. Geralt remembers all of it. The phone calls that would turn into scathing growls; nights were Geralt would gather Yenn into his arms and listen to her try her best to swallow down sobs, knowing well that all she wanted to do was cry and scream and curse. Ciri isn’t going to have any of that. She has more than enough people caring about her. And Jaskier doesn’t need his parents either. It’s a terrible thing to think, and he would never say it. Jaskier needs to make that decision by himself. If he wants to make one last effort to try and win them over, though it’s looking very unlikely, then that’s fine. Geralt will stand by him. But if, like now, he wants his parents to fade into the shadows and block out their words and eyes from him, then that’s fine too.

Until then, all Geralt can offer is encompassing hugs and kisses to Jaskier’s forehead. The other man tries to wiggle away, ducking out of range, but Geralt’s hold on him tightens. A small, barely there, huff of a laugh manages to slip out of the other man. “Geralt Rivia, stop it,” he breathes, trying to untangle out of Geralt. “Cease this softness right now.”

Geralt hums. He manages to catch Jaskier’s jaw, pressing light and quick kisses along the ridge. “No can do,” he mumbles against skin. “The greatest medicine for sadness is cuddles and kisses. And you’re sad. So we’re going to stay here until you’re not anymore.”

Jaskier stops his valiant efforts trying to escape, and half-melts into Geralt’s side. “You’re terrible,” he mutters, looking off into some corner of the room, pointedly avoiding Geralt’s eyes. “Can’t even let a man be miserable in peace.”

He burrows Jaskier as close to him as he can manage, hoping that the warmth blooming between the two of them might loosen the man up a bit. “I’m here to make sure that you aren’t miserable,” Geralt replies, keeping his voice soft. Jaskier sinks against him, burrowing himself into Geralt’s side. “If you want to talk about anything with me, you know that you can. You’ve dealt with quite a lot of my own shit. I want to help you with yours.”

That does soften the man’s eyes. The smallest of twitches curls the corners of his lips. Jaskier sighs. “I know,” he mumbles, finally setting his head down on to Geralt’s shoulder. “I know you do, and I love you so much for it. It’s just...you have your own stuff going on right now, with your dad, and I don’t want to complain about my family just being mean to me when yours could have fallen apart.”

 _Ah_. Geralt understands. He cards his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, combing it back from the man’s face and taking a look at the crystal blue eyes he likes watching so much. “If it’s bothering you, then it’s a problem,” he assures, because he’s used to his own shadows and whispers telling him that he has nothing worth telling other people about, that his problems are nothing to complain about when others have it so much worse. “And I want to help you; whether it’s by this, holding you until you’re not sad anymore, or egging your parent’s house.”

Jaskier snorts a sharp laugh. “You don’t even know where they live.”

“I could find out,” Geralt rumbles, a small smile tugging at his own lips. “I could get Lambert and Eskel involved.”

Jaskier bats lightly at his arm. “Please don’t,” he giggles lightly into Geralt’s shoulder. “I don’t want to have to bail you all out. I don’t think I could afford it.”

“Then just me,” Geralt replies. “You can leave the other two.”

“Who would babysit Ciri for us?”

“Ciri can look after herself.”

“Geralt, she’s eight months old.”

“Practically an adult.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. The smile sitting on his lips doesn’t budge, and Geralt wants it to stay that way – so if he’s going to have to be silly with his fiancé for a few hours, then that’s fine.

* * *

“He’s tired,” Eskel sighs, chucking his jacket and scarf into his room when he passes by. “And grumpy, but I told the nurse that that’s nothing new.”

Geralt nods. The treatment seemed to stretch on for hours on end, but he did blink at the sound of the door to the apartment clicking open and Eskel shuffling inside. He looks tired, but none of them have slept properly in a while. Geralt could blame his lack of sleep on Ciri. She still needs to get up throughout the night and feed and change her. Now, at least, he has company at the eye-watering times in the late night and early morning when he spots either, or both, of his brothers sprawled out on to the couch, watching trashy TV.

Eskel rolls out his shoulders and arms, wincing at the slight strain pulling at his neck. Geralt regards him for a moment. “Sit down,” he nods to the couch. “I’ll get dinner.”

An argument brews on the other man’s tongue, but it’s quickly swallowed when Jaskier sticks his head out from the kitchen and glares at him. “We’re taking care of you, do you hear me?” he asks, pointing a wooden spoon at him.

Eskel almost blanches and nods. He pads over to the living room, all but falling on to the couch. Geralt watches his eyes start to hood as he squirms around, trying to find a comfortable position. It’s not late, but both he and their father had been at the clinic for a few hours. Vesemir is at home, asleep, with his phone beside his bed just in case he needs them in the night. All of their offers to spend the night at their apartment fell on to deaf ears. If he wants to sleep in his own house, none of them can do anything about it. But he was forced to promise that if he felt sick, he was to call them.

Jaskier stands over a pan of broiled chicken and sauce. The smells worm through them, warming and toe-curling, and Geralt moulds himself to Jaskier’s back. “Do you need me to do anything?” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the man’s cheek.

Jaskier hums. “I think you have some beer in the fridge,” he says. “Could you get me one?”

Geralt kisses his cheek again before pulling himself away. He still isn’t used to how cold he feels whenever he drifts away from Jaskier. In the mornings where the other man wakes before him, slipping out of their bed to pad around his apartment or his own house, Geralt struggles not to whine and paw at the cooling sheets that are left behind in his wake.

Geralt grabs four drinks out of the fridge, one for each of them – including Lambert who is still very much in hiding in his room. He’ll be lured out with the smell of dinner being served soon enough, but until then, it’s just the three of them. He watches Eskel from the kitchen, regarding the man slowly sinking into the plush cushions of the couch. Once he’s fed, Geralt will shepherd him into bed. And they’ll take turns bringing Vesemir to his treatments, because one is due two days from now and Eskel will _not_ be going again until he can manage to earn back enough sleep.

His ears prick at the sound of nails clicking on the hardwood floor. Roach trots in, presumably lured out with the promise of food. Her tail swishes from side to side as she heads straight for Jaskier’s feet, sitting obediently beside him and sending him the biggest brownest eyes she can in hopes of treats. Jaskier must spot her. He snorts and shakes his head. “You can’t have any of this, duchess,” he says, reaching down to scratch her head. “Ask Geralt if you can have anything.”

Not broiled and seasoned chicken, or the wine-reduction sauce it’s sitting in, but he fishes out packets of dog food from their cupboard, and within seconds, Roach is plastered to his side with her tail whipping against his leg. “Alright, alright, calm down,” he mutters, putting as much food as he can into her bowl before she sticks her whole head into it.

If he could have more of this, the normality of living with people and feeding a dog and making sure his daughter is still sleeping through her naps, that would be great. He wishes it into existence. He wants to have his father healthy and living out his senior years in his own house, tending to his garden, and doting over his granddaughter. He wants Jaskier and him to live in a home to call their own, embroiled and entangled in each other and they can forget about the rest of the world. Ciri will be a constant fixture in his life and he can watch her grow into whoever she wants to be. All of it, the thoughts that flood his mind, makes his throat bob and his eyes sting.

He sets the drinks on to the breakfast bar and goes back to Jaskier, still standing guard at the stove. He curls his arms around the man’s waist and pulls him back, burrowing his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier huffs a quiet laugh, but relaxes back into the hold. “Want to hold on to me for a bit?” he mumbles quietly, mindful of one of Geralt’s brothers outside. If he wanted to, all Eskel would have to do is glance their way and see them both. Not that he ever minded them pecking quick kisses on to each other’s cheeks or foreheads, or hugs that linger for a while.

Geralt nods, moulding himself along the lines of Jaskier’s body. And a familiar hand settles on to his arm, thumb gentling the worst of the rising tension away. “Okay,” Jaskier hums, swaying them both slightly while he tends to his stovetop of pots and pans.

The smells of dinner slowly wane away as Jaskier’s scent replaces it. Geralt draws in as many lungfuls as he can. His lips rest against the line of Jaskier’s neck. A small shiver tremors through Jaskier, but he keeps his attention on to dinner all the same. He doesn’t know how long he holds on to the other man, but eventually, enough time has passed that Jaskier pats his arm. “Come on,” he murmurs, “dinner’s ready.”

That means parting with Jaskier, and he really can’t bring himself to do that.

Jaskier sets his wooden spoon down and sets both of his hands to the lock of Geralt’s arms, ensnaring his waist and hips and keeping him close. “I’ll tickle you,” he warns, letting his fingertips ghost along Geralt’s bared forearms. Gooseflesh bubbles up and a shiver shakes through him. A warning smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. “I’ll get Eskel and Lambert involved and everything. I know where your weak spots are.”

That he does. Geralt’s hold loosens slightly, but not enough for Jaskier to escape. It’s just enough for Jaskier to turn around until he’s flushed against Geralt’s chest, with his hands settling on the swells of his chest. Geralt’s head hangs slightly, a curtain of white hair obscuring his face. Jaskier reaches up, pushing it back and taking a good look at the man’s face. “We’ll have dinner,” he murmurs, cupping Geralt’s face, “and then you and I will turn in for the night. And when Ciri wakes up for her bottle, I’ll take care of it. You sleep.”

Geralt pushes into Jaskier’s hands. He likes his hands. They’ve mapped out every stretch of skin on his body, chased the worst of his fears away in the night. Jaskier brushes his thumbs along the ridge of his cheekbones. When he opens his eyes – and he wasn’t quite sure when they flickered closed – he runs his gaze over Jaskier’s face. Soft and familiar and smiling in the way that he does where Geralt has no opinion on anything he’s saying. He _will_ sleep and Jaskier _will_ take care of Ciri.

He’s learned not to fight it. “Alright,” he sighs, leaning forward to set their foreheads together. Jaskier’s cheeks round with a broad smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should...Should I say Happy Holidays with the kind of angst I'm writing? Probably not, but Happy Holidays to all of you lovely readers! 🥰 I love and appreciate every single one of you for all the support and love you've given me throughout the year with this fic. Hopefully, I can end it in a way that has everyone (including myself) happy! 
> 
> Wishing everyone a merry and safe holiday and new year 🎅🏻


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long chapter ahead! A lot of little things needed to be established, plus a few big plot things lol
> 
> Enjoy x

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Jaskier is slipping away. The bed jostles underneath him and a small chill slips in through the gap in the sheets when the other man starts to shuffle out of bed. The sun won’t be up this early because of it being winter, but why in the name of all of the gods does Jaskier need to be up this early at all. Geralt hums into his pillow, reaching out before the man can go too far away, and snaring his waist.

Jaskier huffs a laugh as he’s brought back down on to the bed, gathered against Geralt’s chest and firmly trapped in his arms. He glances over his shoulder, noticing that Geralt’s eyes are still very much closed and the man is slipping back to sleep. “I do have to get up, you know,” he mumbles, mindful of the quiet crib next to Geralt’s side of the bed. Ciri has been sleeping for a while, quite peacefully, and neither of them wants to wake her up just yet.

Geralt hums, pressing a lazy kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder.

There’s no hope in him moving. Jaskier is trapped here and that seems to be the end of that. The man rolls his eyes, patting Geralt’s arm. “I have a meeting,” he whispers, trying his best to break free – and he huffs at Geralt not moving an inch. They’re almost the same height, only a sliver separates them, but Geralt is much stronger than him. Swells of toned muscle from years of manual work. Jaskier can appreciate it, especially in the quieter moments when it’s just the two of them, but now he hates it. He really should get back to strength training again.

It’s early, but not overly so. He doesn’t like waking up, especially when it’s cold outside and the bed he’s in is warm. But Jaskier sighs, managing to roll in Geralt’s grasp and face the other man. He burrows his nose into the hollow of Geralt’s throat, listening to the man breath steadily and take in as much of Jaskier’s scent as he can. Jaskier’s lips settle against his skin. “Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

Hands wander and fingers poise along Geralt’s sides. “I need to get up,” he warns. There’s a tense moment where neither of them moves. Jaskier is about to launch his attack, knowing exactly where to place his fingers on the spots Geralt is most ticklish, when the arms around him loosen. A small smile quirks his lips, especially when he peers up and sees an almost pouting face. He leans up, snatching a quick kiss from Geralt’s lips.

Slipping out of bed is torture. Every inch he drifts away from Geralt, his chest tightens and the urge to dive back underneath the sheets and cuddle close to the man rises. His meeting will be a quick one. His heart skips a beat at the thought of it. Once he’s out of bed, he bundles the blankets and sheets back towards Geralt, hoping that he didn’t let too much cool air in to disturb him. Geralt frowns.

Jaskier presses a lingering kiss to the man’s temple. “I’ll be back soon,” he rumbles, managing somehow to pull himself away and grab whatever clothes he can before heading for the bathroom.

The apartment is still and silent. Looking down the hallway, the other doors are closed. Lambert and Eskel are still sleeping. He’s used to seeing them up too, when he has Ciri bundled against him and he’s making her a bottle, he’ll usually find one of the brothers in the living room, sleep soft and drowsy, barely clinging on to consciousness as their heads hang and droop and Jaskier’s chest tightens at the sight of it.

But for now, he’s the only one awake, and he’s mindful to ghost along the floorboards and keeps his trek to the bathroom quiet. The light that blinks awake is blinding and dazzling, and Jaskier squints against it. Gods alive, he wants to go back to bed. He checks his phone. 8 am. Who is even awake at this time, anyway? Idiots, that’s who. And producers who insist on keeping schedules and meeting Jaskier first before going about their usual business.

A clean tee, blazer, and the only pair of jeans he has that aren’t worn around the hem and ripped at the knees. He’s sure the person he’s meeting wouldn’t mind, but still, appearances are everything. He even manages to comb his hair swooping over his eyes, just out of the way from being a problem.

He takes one last steadying look at himself in the mirror. Suitably ready, as long as he can shake the last ounce of sleep from his eyes. He’ll be as quick as he can with this meeting. In and out, with minimal bartering. Even though it’s only been a few minutes, he wants to drift back to bed. It’s warm and familiar and that’s where Geralt is. Thinking about stepping out into the Kaedwen chilly morning air sends a shiver through him and only roots his feet firmly to the ground. But he needs this meeting. He needs it so badly, he’s ready to brave whatever freezing world is outside.

* * *

Ciri wakes with a scowl and grumble these days. Her naps are slowly starting to bleed into each other. They might be getting to a point where she won’t be able to have naps at all, and all Geralt can think about is that he can say goodbye to the little reprieve moments in his day when Ciri is slumbering in her cot and he can take an hour to breathe.

She doesn’t want to be awake. No one does, apparently. Geralt rubs at his eyes, wishing the last tendrils of sleep to let go of him so he can walk down the hallway without squinting against the sunlight streaming in from outside.

Eskel snorts as they step out into the living room. “Gods alive,” he laughs around his breakfast, “she’s definitely your daughter.”

Peering down at the girl, Geralt arches an eyebrow at the sight of tussled blonde hair, most of it sticking out in all directions, squinting blue eyes, and a deeply set scowl in Ciri’s brow and lips as she tries to bury her face into his shoulder; hoping that, maybe, if she hides from the sun, it’ll go away. He can’t imagine he looks much better. He can feel how tacky his mouth is and how dry and stuck-together his lips are. Strands of hair have fallen out of the usual tie he puts in, with them dusting his cheeks and jaw.

Geralt rolls his eyes. He stays stubbornly silent, reminiscent of all the times he woke up ungodly hungover, ignore the calls from Eskel that he probably should have toned it back. “You look like shit too,” he grumbles, walking past his brother.

Eskel huffs. “Just because you woke up alone doesn’t give you a right to be grumpy,” he lilts, watching Geralt pad into the kitchen and get Ciri’s food in order before his own. She bumbles against him, whining that she wants to go back to sleep.

Geralt rocks her. “I know, buddy,” he mumbles, grabbing one of her bottles, “I know.” Gods alive, he misses Jaskier. He’s gone nights and mornings without the man. When he’s busy and can’t make it over to Geralt’s apartment, and Geralt can’t come to his house, he has occasional nights where he’s alone. But this is so much worse. He went to sleep curled around Jaskier, and Jaskier’s scent was still buried in their sheets when he woke up this morning. But the man himself is gone. He’ll be back. He promised to be quick with whatever he’s doing. And Geralt knows not to pry. But he does have to wonder.

Ciri squirms against him. With her bottle snugly and firmly caught in her hands, he’s happy to let her have at it while he grapples with mashing up some bananas and yoghurt. She’s a heavy weight against him, resting while drinking. Geralt turns just enough to pepper a light kiss on to her forehead, among the stray strands of wispy blonde hair. Her thin lips twitch into a smile. Morning-grumpy and annoyed at being woken up from such a long and languid sleep, he can always get himself back into Ciri’s good books by dotting brisk kisses along her forehead and temple.

Armed with a small bowl of bananas and yoghurt for her, and just a slice of toast for him, Geralt steps out into the living room. Eskel is still hunched over his own breakfast, keeping his attention squarely on his phone. The garage is closed for the day. They’ve worked out how to keep the place open while one of them is gone to Vesemir’s appointments, but it’s a Sunday. It’s a Sunday and no one should be working; especially Jaskier.

Ciri babbles as soon as he sits them down at the dining table, but stretches over trying to grab at Eskel. He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. There’s no argument to be had among her uncles; Eskel is her favourite. It could have something to do with the treats and meals he prepares just for her. Lambert might be the fun uncle, intent on teaching her as many swear words as he can to win a bet that her first word will be _fuck_ , but Eskel is the one she tries to paw at whenever he’s nearby. He picks up a small piece of toast from the corner of his plate, handing it out to her. She’s growing at an alarming rate. Geralt remembers when she was a tiny thing who fit into the crook of one of his arms. And while he can still carry her around with one arm free, he’s heavy and getting better at trying to wiggle away from him.

Geralt perches her on his lap, directing her attention towards her own breakfast; now long forgotten about as she chews around a piece of toast. The apartment is quiet. On the days that they have off, it’s nice to let silence just lap over them. The garage can be loud and people flowing in and out means just a bit too much exposure to the outside world. On the weekends, he likes having just his family around.

Most of Ciri’s breakfast manages to get to her mouth. They still have days where she dribbles and spits it out, most of it either getting on to her bib or just on to Geralt’s pants. He’s mourned enough tees and jeans for it to be an issue anymore. They all quickly found out that Ciri isn’t a fan of mangoes or spinach.

Geralt’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He manages to fish it out, and keep it out of Ciri’s reach when she spots it. Her lip trembles at not being able to play with it, but he pecks a quick kiss on to the crown of her head in apology. He isn’t ready for her to start breaking electronics just yet.

_Jaskier : Do you mind bringing Ciri over to my house next week when you have her? _

Geralt’s brows knit together. He can’t remember a time where she has been in Jaskier’s house. When she comes to stay with Geralt, he keeps her here. Shani, Pris, and Essi have all clambered for pictures of her, and they’ve seen her at Vesemir’s party a few months ago, but she’s never been in Jaskier’s house.

He types back a response.

**Geralt : Sure. Why?**

Jaskier calls him. His name pops up on the screen and within seconds, Geralt has the phone pressed against his ear. It’s nice having Jaskier’s voice back with him, albeit he isn’t a fan of what the man says. “Maura called me again,” he mutters, slightly out of breath. He must be on the move, leaving his meeting and heading home. Geralt’s heart quickens. Jaskier will be back soon. He sighs. “She’s coming over to my house next week to talk about some things to do with inheritance. I want you to be there.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “With Ciri?”

Eskel watches him out of the corner of his eye, but he knows when not to listen. He gathers his plate and heads towards his own room, quietly padding away so as not to disturb Ciri or the call. When it’s just them alone, Geralt lets his voice come out of its usual morning rumble. “I mean, I don’t have a problem with it. If the girls are around, they probably want to see her too.”

Jaskier hums. “Shani will be working, and Essi and Pris are leaving around three. But they would like to see her,” he says. There’s a commotion of noise in the background; traffic and people chattering. Through it all, there’s a slight bluster of wind and a cut off curse from Jaskier.

Geralt bounces Ciri on his knee. “Are you nearly home?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier breathes, “just getting into a taxi now. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

It’s not soon enough, but he makes his peace with the fact that Jaskier will be back with them. “Okay,” Geralt rumbles. When they hang up, the silence left behind is deafening. Ciri peers up at him, her hair still a mess and some smudges of food stuck to the corners of her lips. Geralt clears up what mess he can. “Let’s get you into a bath, hmm? Between you and me, you’re starting to stink. And I don’t think your mum will be very impressed if I gave you back to her like this.”

Ciri babbles and clings on tighter to him when he walks them to the bathroom, grabbing a spare change of clothes for her along the way. Just as he flicks on the light, he hears the tell-tale sound of the front door clicking open and shut. Ciri must hear it too. She’s suddenly not very interested in splashing around in a bubble bath and instead tries to clamber over Geralt’s shoulder and look out into the hallway.

When Jaskier appears, Geralt coils an arm quickly around the man’s waist and drags him into a kiss. Jaskier huffs against his lips, but he sets his hands on to Geralt’s chest and lets their lips linger for longer than usual.

Ciri bats at Jaskier’s cheek, demanding attention. Jaskier barely manages to swallow down on his laugh. “Hello gorgeous,” he coos, peppering kisses all along the swell of the girl’s round cheek and her tiny button nose.

Geralt is loath to let go of the man. He rests their foreheads together, letting a shared breath linger between them. Familiar blue eyes seek his out. “Not that I’m complaining about the welcome home,” he lilts, a small smile curling the corners of his lips, “but what was that for?”

Geralt’s hold on him tightens. “Just missed you,” he mumbles, luring another kiss out of the man. It lasts a bit longer, more than a press of lips. Jaskier’s fingers curl into his chest, gathering a small sliver of fabric into his fists, not quite sure about letting go.

Eventually, they both need to breathe. Jaskier pats his chest. “Go and get this one a bath,” he says, reaching out to snag the end of Ciri’s nose. She shrieks a laugh and buries her face into the hollow of Geralt’s neck.

* * *

Ciri is curious about most things in the world. Gods help them when she starts getting the hang of this whole crawling thing. She’s making an effort to master it, already a professional at rolling herself over and holding her own head up to look around whatever room she’s in. Anything within wiggling-distance is fair game and is up to be explored. Or, if Geralt is being completely honest, chewed on. He really shouldn’t liken his daughter to a dog, but Roach gave him an easier time with things being left around the house. A few chewed up and torn socks and that was it. Once Ciri gets the hang of clambering up on to her own legs, and starts her first staggering steps, he doesn’t know what to do.

Jaskier’s house is full of little ornaments and things gathered over the years. Most of it, thankfully, has been cleared away from the floor. Even the coffee table that held so many of their board games and trinkets is now barren. Geralt lies Ciri down on the ground, cushioned on to her own playmat that he brought with him. She’ll only be here for a few hours. He wouldn’t inflict too much of a change on to her. She’s curiously quiet as she looks around the room, wide-eyed and seeking out familiar faces. Her nose screws up in concentration as Essi and Pris come over to her, cooing and handing her toys to play with. She has seen these people before, she just can’t remember where.

A few moments later, with the two women now stretched out on the ground with the baby, Ciri settles and crows in delight at each toy given to her to fling across the room. She’s a child of simple means.

Jaskier watches from the portal of the kitchen, leaning against the wooden frame and nursing a small glass of wine in his hand. The hours manage to slip by and he looks worse than Geralt who, surprisingly, isn’t the one chewing at his nails at the thought of Jaskier’s mother coming to visit.

The moment the other two women leave, and they’re left alone until she arrives, Geralt will try and placate the man for as long as he can before what needs to happen happens. And he braces himself for it. When he wanders near, Jaskier reaches out and curls his fingers into Geralt’s. He tugs and brings him close, lifting his chin and luring a long, lingering kiss out of him. His lips are soft and warm and his breath is tinted with sweet and spiced wine.

Geralt hums against him. “Are you alright?” he mumbles, squeezing Jaskier’s hand.

The man takes a measured breath. “As alright as I can be,” he murmurs, looking out on to the living room. Essi and Pris will be leaving soon. Geralt has been keeping an eye on the time. And each minute that draws nearer, Jaskier’s shoulders have tightened and he keeps taking lingering looks to the front door. The corner of his lip quirks. “Honestly, why did I even agree to this? It’s like I’m standing in front of a firing squad.”

Geralt hums. Words perch on the tip of his tongue, and he wants to assure the other man that he’ll be alright, everything will be just fine, but he can only imagine he’ll hate hearing it as much as Geralt does. So he bundles close to Jaskier, peppering kisses all over his face until a light laugh slips out of the man and he sets a free hand against Geralt’s chest. “You can’t just kiss all of my problems away, you know,” he grumbles as best as he can, turning away in some attempt to hide the growing smile on his lips.

Geralt’s hands find his waist and the arches of his hips, smoothing over the warm fabric of his tee and jeans. His fingers aren’t as deft and nimble as Jaskier’s, but they do worm underneath the hem of his shirt, trailing lightly along Jaskier’s warm and soft skin. The man just about manages to stop a shiver from trembling through him. His housemates are a few metres away, and although their attention is squarely fixed on the baby, he’s sure that if either of them glanced their way, Jaskier would have to live with quirked eyebrows and knowing looks for the next few weeks, possibly months. And he couldn’t cope with that.

When Essi and Pris do leave, and they’re left alone in the house with Ciri, Jaskier’s shoulders tighten up again. Even when the door clicks shut and the silence laps over them all, Geralt is quick to gather Ciri back up into his arms and seek Jaskier out. Ciri babbles, looking around for the man too. She loves Jaskier. And when they find him in the kitchen, gathering a small snack for himself, she cries out and tries to stretch out of Geralt’s arms to get to him.

Jaskier arches an eyebrow at her, but lets her climb to him all the same. “Hey now,” he soothes, “what’s all this? Do you not like being at my house? Well, I assume the decor isn’t up to your usual standard.” Jaskier looks around the kitchen; just as cluttered, but still well-managed, as the rest of the house. “I’ve personally never been a fan of that clock up there, but Shani insisted. If you hate it too, then that’s two votes. We just need to get Auntie Essi on board and we’re good.”

It settles him, having Ciri around. She babbles and holds a conversation with him, giggling and burying her face into his chest and neck when he brings her on a tour of the kitchen and living room. Her toys are still splayed out on the floor, but Geralt will gather them when Yennefer comes by. Once she has Ciri, and she’s gone for the next few days, Jaskier will be bundled to bed and he won’t be leaving it.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but a doorbell eventually chimes. Ciri and Jaskier both blanch, halting their conversation and looking to the hallway. Geralt pads near, holding out his hands. “Here,” he rumbles, “let me have her.”

Ciri squirms as she’s handed over, but Geralt swaddles a blanket around her and keeps her close to his chest. He fights with himself. He should follow Jaskier out into the hallway, be shrouded against his back while he answers the door. But he gives him space. Ciri looks up at him, tilting her head slightly. Geralt pecks a quick kiss on to her forehead, going in search of a plush toy for her to hold on to. And possibly throw at the woman if Maura draws too near. His lips quirk at the thought of it.

* * *

He can feel his breath starting to thin. It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to try and steady it, and settle his heart from bursting straight out of his chest, when he turns into the hallway and walks to the front door. Two long lancets have been cut into it and paned with frosted glass. He can see the distorted image of his mother outside, tilting back slightly to look up at the house. He can only imagine what’s going through her mind.

His hand trembles slightly when he sets his hands against the lock and the handle of the door, taking a moment to draw in a steady breath. He wrenches the door open.

She’s a harsh column of colour against the winter landscape outside. A bright and dazzling crimson peacoat sets her apart from the grim greyscale, and it’s almost too much for his eyes. She’s as done up as she usually is, and the first wisp of harsh perfume to bust along his nose has him tumbling back to years ago, when he still lived with his parents, and that’s all he ever smelled.

Copies of his blue eyes meet his. “Julian,” she smiles. It’s all gleaming teeth and doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Jaskier sets his lips. “Mum.”

Maura’s smile falters slightly when she glances past her son, finally noticing Geralt standing further down the hallway, with Ciri bundled in one of his arms. She’s swaddled in a blanket, holding one of her favourite stuffed toys to her chest, and eyes the stranger with caution. Geralt settles a hand on to the girl’s back, his thumb running over the small notches of her back. _It’s okay, princess. She scares me too_.

Maura straightens, setting her folded hands in front of her. The clouds overhead slump and threaten to spill. She glances up at them, regarding them for a brief moment. “May I come in?” she asks. Turning back to her son, she offers him a small smile. “I just had a hair appointment at Marcel’s, and it would be a shame for all of his hard work to be destroyed by the rain.”

Jaskier nods. His tongue swells and sits heavily in his mouth, refusing to budge just yet. But he does step to the side, letting his mother in. He winces at the fresh plume of perfume assaulting his senses.

“Wouldn’t want you to melt,” Geralt rumbles quietly, most of the words lost as he turns around and disappears into the living room. Maura doesn’t hear him, but Jaskier does, and he struggles not to let a laugh blurt out of him.

He does blink at the sight of his mother removing her coat, threading it over her arm as she looks around the narrow hallway and staircase. “Hmm,” she muses, “I thought you would have destroyed this place by now. Good to know that you’re treating it well.”

Jaskier sets his jaw. “Having three housemates will do that,” he replies, moving past her to lead them into the kitchen. He can hear Geralt moving around in the living room, and prays to every god he can remember the name of that he’ll join them and settle the worst of his nerves. But he’s confident that he won’t let his mother walk out of here with anything over him. He gestures to the dining table, offering her a seat. “Geralt helps when he can. He’s been busy recently.”

Maura’s lips thin and her immaculate rouge paint almost disappears entirely. “Yes, running his own business must be time-consuming.” She looks to the living room, craning her head slightly. “And the child? Whose is it?”

He would love to see her reaction if he said his. And if they’re being _technical_ , she is. Ciri has gathered a strange family for herself, with two parents, an additional step-father, and a pack of uncles and aunts that are as mad and insane as each other. Geralt joins them before he can voice anything, so he goes back to brewing some tea for them. Even all these years later, and with little to no sight of her or his father, he still knows that she likes her tea with a drop of milk and no sugar.

Geralt rocks Ciri against him. “She’s mine,” he offers simply, glancing over to Jaskier. “But Jaskier cares for her too. I think she likes him more than me, to be honest.”

Jaskier snorts. “Because I spoil her,” he mumbles, dishing two cups of tea for them and glancing over at Geralt. “Do you want anything?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m alright,” he replies, turning back to Ciri. She has her plush toy gathered close, resting her head on Geralt’s collarbone. But she scrutinises the stranger at their table, not taking her eyes off of her for a moment, even when Geralt takes a seat next to Jaskier.

Maura watches the baby. She’s worryingly silent for a moment, trying to crane her head to get a better look at Ciri. When she catches the girl’s eye, Ciri stops her staring. She whimpers and buries her face back into the hollow of Geralt’s chest. Jaskier reaches out, letting her grab on to and play with one of his fingers.

“You have gathered quite a family for yourself,” Maura hums after a moment. He can only imagine what they look like – and it was absolutely intentional. If his mother is going to think he’s run away with his life and can’t be trusted, he’s going to show her exactly what his life is. He won’t drop Geralt, no matter what she, or anyone else in his family, has to say about it. Geralt is his life, holding any cracks in his heart together and making sure it doesn’t break. And Ciri has etched out her own space in his life, and he can’t imagine her not being here.

Jaskier sighs. “You came to discuss the inheritance,” he rumbles, looking more at Ciri than at the woman across the table. If he were to meet the cool blue of her eyes, he doesn’t know what could slip out of his mouth. “And I invited you here to tell you that you can have it. Give it to Izzy, I don’t care. I’m not giving up anything I have, no matter what you say.”

The silence is deafening. Shani’s stupid clock ticks by the seconds and he wants to rip it out of the wall. Maura takes a measured sip of tea, and even the cup knocking against the table’s surface is too loud to him. She purses her lips. “You must understand things from our side, Julian,” she says as steadily as she can. “You were our only child for so long. Alfred and I just wanted you to do well and have a good life. You were to be the one to bring our name forward. And with that comes certain expectations.”

 _None of which you met_. It goes unsaid, but he can remember Alfred’s biting tone clear enough for it to be heard, even now, all these years later. Jaskier tries not to tense up or frown, keeping his expression clear. Ciri is focused on him, playing with his finger. She’s reading him. If he starts tensing up, she will too. And the last thing he needs for anyone is an upset Ciri.

Maura sighs. “We gave you everything you wanted to go and study at the Academy. Granted, we thought you were studying business management. Your father offered you a very good position in Redania’s business district.” She tilts her head. “I just want to understand why you can’t see things from our side.”

Jaskier’s lips thin. “I can see your side just fine,” he reasons, turning to finally look at her. Geralt splays a knee out, thumping it against Jaskier’s. The warmth of touch blooms through the fabric of his jeans. An assurance that he’s there. It’s settling and takes the sharp chill off of whatever anxiety is still trying to sour his veins. “And I told you mine. I didn’t want any of that. I’m sorry if you both still can’t see that, but I’m here to tell you that I won’t be what you expected of me. So why can’t we just get this all settled and we can both move on with our lives.”

In a way, he’s thankful that it’s his mother sitting her, and not his father. Alfred Pankratz has a temper and is easily stoked. Regardless of whether Ciri was here or not, he’s sure that his father would have already raised his voice, and gods only know what they both would have said to each other.

His mother, at least, does regard his words and after a long, thick silence, she sighs. “I have to speak with Alfred,” she murmurs, looking down at her cup. His own tea is long forgotten about, and he doesn’t care at all. Maura’s lips thin and her fingers tap against the table. “We have many things to discuss.”

 _And I don’t want to be part of it_. It goes unsaid, but he’s sure that the words somehow make their way over to her. Ciri starts to fuss, squirming in Geralt’s arms. She even lets go of Jaskier’s finger to bury her face and fists into Geralt’s chest. Maura looks over at them, an unreadable expression settled on her face. Geralt sets a hand on to the baby’s back, shushing and rocking as she whimpers.

Jaskier nudges his leg underneath the table. Silent permission to go, that he’ll be fine without Geralt for a moment. The other man watches him out of the corner of his eye, but does stand up from the table. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he says to the table, but mostly aimed at Jaskier. A promise to come back as quickly as he can.

Jaskier reaches up before he can drift too far away, pressing a peck of a kiss to Ciri’s cheek. She can sleep through the nights now, only waking up for her usual feeds, but she still needs her naps throughout the day to spare them from Cranky Ciri, who knows no limits in how loudly she can scream and fuss.

The further Geralt steps away, the more his chest tightens, but he keeps his eyes pointedly on the table. His ears twitch at the sound of Maura sitting forward in her seat. “Julian,” she murmurs, a type of voice she doesn’t use often, and it’s odd hearing it come from her. “Julian, be blunt with me, please. Is this the life you want? A musician engaged to a man with a child?”

Jaskier’s eyes begin to sting, but he blinks back what he can. He won’t cry, even though his throat bobs and clams up. Gods alive, where’s Geralt? He needs him here.

Maura sighs, stretching a hand out for his. He’s frozen, fingers curling into his fists. When she sets her hand over his, he struggles not to yank it away. It’s strange. They weren’t, and still aren’t, an overly affectionate family. And he struggles to look at her now; looking at him with her attempt at soft eyes and a worried expression slowly leaking through. “Do you have any plans in place for your life? How are you supporting yourself? And how long have you known this man before proposing to him? Did you know about the child?”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “I knew,” he replies stiffly, slipping his hand away from her. He sets his jaw as steadily as he can. “I knew everything, because he told me. He was honest and truthful with me, and gave me so many ways of getting out because, gods bless him, he’s terrible for self-sacrificing, and thinking that he doesn’t deserve the world.” He levels his mother with a firm stare, hoping that some of what he’s saying is getting through to her. Too many years have passed them both by where nothing ever did. “This is the life I want for myself. And I’m not going to try and justify it to you, because it’s mine and mine alone. And if you’re not happy with it, then that’s on you. I’m not going to apologise.”

He can see Geralt at the portal of the door, standing and staring at him. His gaze burns into the side of Jaskier’s face.

Maura draws in a steady breath. “Alright,” she murmurs, gathering her bag and coat. “If that is how you feel, that I’m not going to try and dissuade you from it. Your father and I have some things left to discuss, but we can all meet another time to finalise whatever it is that you want to do. Is that alright?”

Jaskier’s throat bobs. “Fine.”

Maura pushes herself back from the table. There’s a light screech of the chair’s legs against the tiled floor, just enough to grate his ear. He tries not to wince as he stands, mirroring his mother as he gathers the last of her things. She’ll go, and he’ll let her. He’ll let her report back to his father and come to whatever agreement that won’t involve him, because he doesn’t want any part of it anymore. And yet, something clenches in his chest.

They tried. They really tried with him. And there have been moments in his life where, arguably, he wasn’t the greatest son to them. He wasn’t even a good one. But sometimes it just isn’t enough. Jaskier shadows his mother towards the front door, bypassing the living room and, presumably, where Geralt and Ciri are hiding for now.

His parents will keep to the outskirts of his life, like they have since he left for the Academy, and doing nothing more than nudging the line with their toes, never venturing far in. He hasn’t missed them, and that’s the realisation that threatens to floor him there and then. He wonders about them, sometimes, when he sees Geralt and his father, and the secure, firm family they have. He wonders if he could have had the same – but what kind of person would he have been, if he had stayed in Redania and been whatever it was his father wanted him to be. His mouth sours at the thought of it.

He gets the door, not quite meeting his mother’s eyes when she takes one last lingering look at him. “You have surprised me, Julian,” she murmurs. In the quiet of the hallway, it sounds louder than it’s meant to, and he struggles not to shy away from her. She reaches out, setting thin, nimble fingers on to his arm. “You really have.”

He doesn’t want to know whether it’s good or bad. But he swallows, nods, and mumbles a quiet _bye_ under his breath. Maura steps out into the greyscale world outside, walking primly towards a car parked on the curb outside the house. Jaskier squints. He recognises the driver; a now grey-haired man he knew when he was younger. Good to know that his family can keep staff around, anyway.

She doesn’t look back at him, but slips into the car once the driver pulls the door open for her. When it closes, and she’s locked away back into her own world and Jaskier is left to his, the driver looks up at him perched at his front door. He nods solemnly. Even their family’s staff know what goes on within their household – even now, all these years later. Jaskier thins his lips and shrugs.

Warmth blooms behind him. His grip on the door tightens as a familiar, firm hand settles on to his shoulder, fingers pressing into the swell of muscle, tight now from the tension of all that’s happened. Jaskier loosens a shaky breath. “That could have gone worse,” he tries to laugh, closing the door and hoping that he’ll be able to purge out the last cold chill clinging to his veins.

When he turns, he’s met by Geralt wearing a cautiously worried expression. He’s waiting for the crack. The first crack that will crinkle his facade and he’ll collapse. But he doesn’t know whether to worry or not, that he waits for the crack too and nothing comes. He watches Geralt’s brows knit together. Within seconds, he’s gathered into the man’s arms, and he can finally breathe again. Geralt hugs him close, reaching up to thread his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s gentle and familiar and he sags into Geralt’s hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever could be planned for our family? What does Maura have to talk to her husband about?
> 
> Who knows? Not me! (I joke, I do know, and I'm excited)


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another very long chapter to ring in the New Year!

Warmth washes over him, curling through his muscles and bones and wringing out the deepest of sounds from him. It’s been a while. It’s been too long. And it’s no one’s fault. Life gets in the way, and even when peaceful, quiet moments do come along, neither of them are in the mood to do anything other than kiss and palm gentle touches over shoulders and backs and chests.

But now, Jaskier arches, breath caught in his throat as Geralt’s mouth delves back down on his cock. It’s been a while and they still know exactly where to touch and kiss to lure the right kind of shivers and noises out of the other. Jaskier’s caught. He wants to look down, at the other man swaddled comfortably in the valley of his splayed out legs, sucking on his cock like he’s starving for it. And he knows that if he does look and watch, and Geralt meets his gaze, this will be over far too soon. His fists knit into the bedsheets and his knuckles turn white. “Gods, Geralt,” he whines, looking to the ceiling instead.

He can feel everything. The small quirk of Geralt’s lips – the _bastard_. The way the man, despite being the one to lure the lewdest of sounds out of Jaskier, is the one slowly grinding his hips into the bedding below him. His fingers press into the arches of Jaskier’s hips, leaving behind prints and soon-to-be bruises that Jaskier just can’t wait to feel in the morning.

The second Yennefer took Ciri away, Geralt had him caught and bundled upstairs. Everything else was forgotten about. His mother, her words, any responsibility for his life or that of Ciri’s. They were alone, together, and gods only know when they were going to get another opportunity.

Geralt whispered against the hollow of his neck that he was going to take him apart, and well, here he is, breath thinning and whines and moans spilling out of him. He’s going to die here, and that’s perfectly alright by him. One of his hands manages to untangle itself from the bedding. His knuckles ache from being moved and flexed, finally, but he reaches down and threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair. He let it down, untied, a silent invitation for Jaskier to do whatever he likes with it. And with how the man hums around him, glancing up with a wicked glint in his eye, Jaskier knows exactly what to do.

His hips move of their own accord. He couldn’t stop them if he tried. The familiar wet heat surrounding him is too tempting. Geralt groans around him, every press of Jaskier’s cock further into his mouth. He matches the man for each thrust, sucking and laving his tongue around the underside of Jaskier’s cock, wringing moans and whines out of him. The hands settled on Jaskier’s hips tighten, guiding each thrust.

Jaskier loses himself in it. The familiar musk of sex that starts to thicken the air and coat the roof of his mouth, the rhythmic thrum of pleasure that shudders through every inch of him. His fingers tighten in Geralt’s hair. His lips open, plump and red from being bitten, and a half-attempt of the man’s name manages to stumble out. “ _Please_ ,” he whines, finally looking down. His core tightens at the sight of Geralt ensnaring him. Golden eyes hold his for a moment. Jaskier’s hips tremble.

Geralt’s lips, even stretched around him, still quirk into a smile. He bobs his head as steadily as he can, squeezing Jaskier’s hips in instruction – thrust up when Geralt lowers his lips back down on him, filling his mouth completely. His eyelids flutter closed at the first nudge of the head of the man’s cock at the back of his throat. But he pulls off, putting a hand quickly on the man and stroking just enough to keep his whine from being too depraved. “What do you want, darling?” He keeps his lips close to Jaskier’s skin, relishing in how the man shivers at the warm puffs of breath ghosting over him.

He can’t breathe. Jaskier tries to pull in as much air as he can, but with Geralt’s hands on him, it’s impossible. His hand slips away from the man’s hair, seeking out the hand on his hip instead. “I need to come,” he whines, mouth stretching around a moan as Geralt’s hand tightens around him. Each stroke is measured and firm, in the way that he knows Jaskier likes. A thrum of pleasure shudders through him. “Please Geralt,” he tugs at the hand on his hip to move, to do _something_ , “I need you.”

Geralt isn’t that unkind. He can draw pleasure out for what seems to be hours on end, edging Jaskier close to the edge, only to drag him back again. And he’ll keep his touches light and brief, never quite getting the friction that Jaskier needs. But Jaskier knows how to look at him. Even bleary-eyed and desperate, he can part his plump, bitten lips and moan out the man’s name in the way a siren would call to a passing sailor; let his eyes glint in the way he knows Geralt cherishes and challenges with every chance he gets.

He’s kind. Jaskier stares at him with those eyes for only a quick moment before he’s pushed back against the mattress, the other man clambering up and prowling over the length of him. The mattress sinks beneath him and he almost sinks into the bedding and pillows propping him up slightly, and with Geralt above him, he’s just warm enough to forget the sharp turn that the weather took outside. He can still faintly hear the wind, lashing at the windows as soon as the sun dipped down and cast the skies black. He isn’t a fan of the short days that winter brings, but it does mean long nights, and long nights spent with Geralt are his favourite.

He curls his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and neck, bringing the man flush against him. Geralt is warm and familiar, and every stretch of skin that his hands map out sends a tremble through him.

Geralt dips down, luring a sweet, chaste kiss out of him. One that is over too quickly, if Jaskier has anything to say about it. He tries to bring the man back, lifting his head up to chase after Geralt’s lips and tightening the hold he has around his neck and shoulders. But Geralt stubbornly stays away, hovering above him with a stupid smirk glazed across his lips. He reaches out, settling a hand on to Jaskier’s cheek. It’s warm and soft, and he can’t help but burrow into the touch.

Geralt’s thumb maps his lips. They’re numb and swollen from biting at them, but they part for Geralt’s touch. A shuddering breath leaves Jaskier, and his eyes hood. Geralt rocks their hips together, just enough to send another thrum of pleasure through him, and have a gasp leaving Jaskier’s lips.

“I need you,” Jaskier breathes, lifting his head just enough for the tips of their noses to brush. A shared breath lingers between them. Geralt doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t come any closer. _Fine_. Jaskier moves a leg, splaying it out to let Geralt fall into the valley of his hips, hooking it around the man and setting his heel into the small of his back. Geralt knows what he needs; he just likes hearing Jaskier say it.

His bed is already a rumpled mess, with most of the sheets kicked down towards the foot of the bed or spilling off of the end of it. All the heat he needs is from the body trying to bury him down into the mattress below him. Geralt doesn’t even move away to reach out and grab a bottle of lube, tossed somewhere within the bed moments before, in a time where they tried grappling each other to the bed amid kisses and frantic touches.

The click of the cap has his nerves sparking. He gathers Geralt’s face into his hands, keeping his lips close as he breathes. “I need you,” he repeats, parting his legs when he feels Geralt reach down and trail wet fingers against his hole. “I need you so much, darling, _please—_ ”

He gasps at the first nudge of the tip of Geralt’s finger. Even though it’s been a while, his body knows Geralt’s. It knows his touch and how to part for him. A moan catches in Jaskier’s throat when Geralt pushes one finger in, slowly drawing it in and out for a moment, to get Jaskier used to the stretch again. And even though it has been a while, and they know each other so well, a small thrum of pain darts up the small of his back. Nothing too bad. If anything, it heightens the pleasure. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed and his mouth hangs open.

Geralt delves deeper, curling his finger after a moment to brush along Jaskier’s prostate. “ _There_ ,” Jaskier gasps, curling an arm around Geralt’s neck and holding him tight and close, “there, oh gods Geralt, that’s it.”

A second finger joins the first, and Jaskier hauls Geralt in for a kiss. It’s mashed lips and curling tongues, and nothing finessed about it at all. He just needs Geralt _here_. And he is. Every breath Jaskier manages to take in has their mixed scents brought with it. Their skin is warm and damp with sweat and almost stuck to each other.

Geralt dips his head, nosing along the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw. The air is so thick, it’s hard to breathe; but he can’t stop scenting them both on his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter shut. His head tilts back, cushioned among the pillows, lounging in the light dust of Geralt’s nose and lips along his jaw and neck.

Fingers move and stretch him, delving in and out and brushing his prostate with every stroke. His cock leaks on to his abdomen. He tries to lift his hips, grind up against Geralt’s. But the man is a solid weight pinning him down, and gods alive he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Geralt presses kisses all along the column of his neck, drawing light moans out of him. Jaskier’s fingers curl into the swell of muscle along Geralt’s back. “I’m ready,” he breathes, pulling Geralt impossibly closer, “please, love, get in me. I need you. _Please_.”

Geralt’s moan is lost against Jaskier’s neck. He tries his best to clench around the fingers inside of him. They would usually take longer. Geralt isn’t exactly small, and no matter how many times Jaskier takes him, he’ll need three fingers at least. But his nerves are firing off in all directions, and he can’t breathe in any more of their scent anymore before he loses it. He can see it now, rolling them both so he can get the other man pliant underneath him. He’ll take what he needs, and Geralt will hold on to his hips and guide him.

Pointed teeth scrape along the join of his neck and shoulder, and Geralt’s fingers slip away from him. Jaskier whines, his fingers curling and pressing into the man’s back. He isn’t gone for long, thank the gods. Jaskier can breathe again when he feels Geralt set the head of his cock against his stretched hole, pausing for a moment to let Jaskier breathe.

A whine slips out of him as he grapples Geralt closer. “Please, my love,” he gasps, “please, fuck me. I need you so bad—” The rest of his words are lost through a moan. It’s loud and rings out through the room and even if one of his housemates came home right now, he doesn’t think he’d be able to snap his jaw shut and be quiet. Geralt pushes into him so steadily and settles deep in him, Jaskier’s hold on him tightens. He isn’t going anywhere. And he doesn’t. As soon as Geralt’s hips come flush against his, he stays prowled over him, still and waiting for Jaskier to stop trembling around him.

He’s close enough for the man to set his lips against Geralt’s ear. He lures him with the best words he can. “Fuck me, darling,” he lilts, trying not to smirk at feeling a shiver shudder through Geralt. His hips start to rock and grind, just moving his cock further into Jaskier and brushing along his prostate. His fingers press into Geralt’s skin. “You feel so good, so big. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Am I tight around you? You barely fit inside of me—”

Geralt grunts against his neck. He reaches up, bracing a hand among the pillows by Jaskier’s head, and draws back his hips. Jaskier lounges in the familiar feeling of Geralt’s cock sliding out of him, before it’s hammered back in. The sharp slap of their hips cracks through the room, and it’s joined by Jaskier’s moan. He tries to lift his hips, to meet Geralt thrust for thrust, but all he can do is lie pinned underneath the man and let his walls grip and tremble around him. Geralt’s breathes hotly against his neck.

Jaskier cards his fingers through the man’s hair, knotting some strands and holding on as he’s fucked into the mattress. Geralt’s hips pick up speed, and get relentless in fucking him. And it’s everything he wants. Moans and grunts and half-formed attempts at Geralt’s name huff out of him.

He lets his legs splay wider, getting Geralt deeper into the dip of his thighs. And he moans at the feeling of the man fucking in even deeper. Gods he can feel Geralt in his throat. He wants to close his eyes and set his head back and let pleasure wash over him, and for Geralt to do whatever he likes. And he wants to pry his eyes open, watch the man’s hips snap into him, and his skin bead with sweat. All he can do is breath against Geralt’s ear, luring the man closer and closer. “Fuck me full,” he moans, curling his legs around Geralt’s hips and setting his heels into the small of his back. He doesn’t need to guide Geralt – the man knows exactly what he’s doing and how to lure them both towards the edge. And Jaskier is barrelling towards it. His only hope is that he can drag Geralt along with him. “You feel so good in me, darling,” Jaskier whines. “I can feel you everywhere.”

Geralt is close too. His thrusts quicken and start to get sloppy, seeking out release in the wet heat surrounding him. One of Geralt’s hands grabs at Jaskier’s thigh, hitching his leg up slightly and continuing to fuck into him. Jaskier can only moan and quiver around him.

Words bumble out through his numbed, tingling lips. After a while, he can’t even hear himself. Everything outside of them fades away. Jaskier’s hold on him tightens. “Finish in me,” he breathes against Geralt’s ear. The man grunts harshly, snapping his hips against Jaskier’s. One of his hands moves, curling his fingers around Jaskier’s cock. He really doesn’t need the touch at all, but he can feel how tightly he clamps down on Geralt, and the trembling moan that tumbles out of him when he does. “Geralt, _please_ , that’s it, baby. That’s it, right there. I’m so close, _please_ , darling.”

When he comes, his whole body convulses and short-circuits. His toes curl and his fingertips bury themselves into Geralt’s skin and hair. His mouth stretches around a moan, caught in his throat, but he bears down on the man’s cock and tenses around him. Geralt’s hips still, and Jaskier’s eyes roll at the feeling of cum flooding him. It’s been too long. And he really doesn’t want to part with Geralt just yet. Their hips press flush against each other and Geralt slumps over him. He’s a heavy and solid weight, and it’s a struggle to breathe in a full breath, but Jaskier wouldn’t have it any other way.

His legs eventually cramp, and he winces as they fall away from Geralt’s hips. They splay out to either side, letting the other man rest against him for a moment. And he isn’t sure how long they stay there. Geralt’s lips rest against his throat, mouthing and pressing chaste kisses along his sweat-soaked skin. The scent of both of them mixes with the musk of sex, and it’s almost smothering.

When Geralt starts to slip away, it takes everything in him not to whine. But he’s soft and slips out of Jaskier, and his brows knit together at the feeling of cum starting to trickle out of him. A small frown that disappears completely when the familiar feeling of Geralt’s tongue laves at him. “ _Geralt_ ,” he whines, a hand shooting down to catch the man’s hair. He winces at a puff of breath washing over his hole. Geralt laughs; _the bastard_. Jaskier pulls lightly at his hair. He’d love to keep going. He really would. But his bones have pooled and sink into the mattress below him. He’ll be ready again after a quick nap. He promises.

Geralt leaves him with one last lingering kiss to the inside of his thigh, barely there and fleeting. He steps away from the bed, far too steadily for a man who fucked Jaskier senseless. He pads across the room, presumably heading for the bathroom next door. Jaskier just about musters the energy to roll his head, looking for his phone and wincing at the bright light that blinks at him when he unlocks it. It’s still early in the night. No one will be home for a few hours. And if the girls met up with their friends, they won’t be home until the following morning.

Geralt comes back after a few minutes; a clean, damp rag in one hand and a glass of water in the other. A small, content smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever been offered a drink after sex,” he hums, but taking the glass all the same. The water is cold and just what he needs to cool down. Even though the winds lash outside, and there’s a very real chance of them both waking up to snow tomorrow, the room is stiflingly warm. Geralt cleans what he can, his eyes beginning to hood and droop closed. The rag is eventually flung on to some part of the ground. Geralt clambers back on to the bed, quickly taking up his usual spot by Jaskier’s side.

He can’t complain. A familiar broad chest presses against his back and a firm arm curls around him, holding him close. Jaskier sets his hand on to Geralt’s hand, threading their fingers together.

He wants more of this. He’ll never have enough of it, no matter how many times they go to sleep and wake up entangled in each other. No matter how many times Geralt looks at him with such familiarity and warmth, a shiver shudders through him and his chest tightens. Anything from earlier today is gone entirely. Any chill that stuck firm to his bones and churned his stomach has long since been chased away. Jaskier burrows back against the man behind him, humming contently as Geralt sets his nose into his nape and breathes the scent of him in.

* * *

No one should be awake at this hour. He doesn’t even know what hour it is, but it seems early. Cracking an eye open, he looks to the window. It’s dark outside, which tells him nothing. The sun doesn’t rise until late in the morning anymore, and even then, rain-heavy grey clouds are keen to block out any source of light at all.

But it’s cold and Jaskier bundles further into his bed, and it’s then does he realise that his partner is gone. His eyes open, sleep starting to slip away. It doesn’t stray too far, lingering in the darker shadows of the room; but Jaskier can’t go back to sleep until he knows exactly where Geralt thinks it’s acceptable to be other than in bed at this hour – whatever time it is.

He lifts his head just enough to see his bedroom door cracked open slightly. He’s fairly sure that the man has just gone to the bathroom, and that he should just wait. He’s loath to leave the cocoon of his blankets. They’re thick and plush and keep him toasty against the harsh chill outside. Even thinking about setting his bare foot on to the floorboards of his room sends a shiver through him.

No sooner does the thought cross his mind, Geralt comes back, quietly stepping back into the room and clicking the door shut behind him. He’s pulled on underwear and one of the worn tees he leaves around Jaskier’s house for when he stays over. Jaskier’s eyes narrow. Now that won’t do at all. He likes Geralt’s chest. He likes setting his cheek and hand against it when he’s drifting off to sleep, and he likes curling his fingers into the light smattering of hair there. Geralt catches his eye as he shuffles back to bed, his brow quirking in to an arch. “Did I wake you?” he whispers, despite the fact it’s only those two.

The others must be back. The house is deafeningly quiet, but he’s sure they stumbled back during the hours they were sleeping. He can only hope that they found their rooms and beds okay, and he won’t have to clamber downstairs to Pris sprawled across the couch. Again.

Jaskier hums, turning around to face Geralt as he slips into bed. A small wisp of cold air worms in, but it’s quickly chased away when Geralt settles, and he’s soon gathered into Jaskier’s arms. “No,” he sighs, letting his hand skim underneath the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. His palm settles against the soft swell of muscle there. “Just wondered where you were.”

Geralt curls an arm around his shoulders. With their shared body heat and the blankets pulled back up to their necks, the cold outside is long forgotten about. A smile blooms across Jaskier’s lips when he feels the man press a kiss to his forehead. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, slowly dusting the tips of his fingers across Jaskier’s back. The touch is soft and Jaskier sighs. Sleep pulls at him, luring him under, and he burrows further into Geralt’s side, hoping to drag the other man under with him.

* * *

Fair, it’s later in the day, but that isn’t to say people should be awake. It’s indecent. What day is it anyway? A weekend day? Who knows?

Geralt is still with him. The man is curled around his back, and his arms keep him close. But he frees one, just to swat at Jaskier’s hip. “Someone is calling you,” he rumbles against the back of Jaskier’s neck.

He cracks an eye open. Someone _is_ calling him. He woke to a sharp buzzing nearby. Lifting his head just enough, he sees his phone threatening to vibrate off of the edge of the bedside table. Jaskier huffs a sharp sigh into his pillow, reaching out and grabbing for his phone. It would be easier said than done, if a certain man wasn’t so insistent on cuddling on to him like a koala bear. Jaskier just about to wiggle out just enough to reach out and catch his phone, squinting against the bright screen.

His chest tightens at the sight of his mother’s name splayed across it.

It’s early. 10 am. Of course the good, productive people of Redania would be awake. Jaskier rubs at his eyes, and swipes _ANSWER_.

It’s against his better judgment. Most of his brain is still asleep, including the rational side. Geralt buries his face into Jaskier’s nape, grunting something about at least getting out of bed and going somewhere else if he’s going to take a call.

His mother’s voice is suddenly in his ear, and _that_ manages to shake him awake.

“Julian?” Her voice is as solid and prim as always.

Jaskier rubs a hand over his face, wiping the last few strands of sleep from him. “Yeah?” he rasps, wincing and clearing his throat. “Why are you calling me at...?” he doesn’t mean to trail off. But his brain is slow at knitting his synapse back together again, and rational thought may be offline for a moment.

There’s a small sigh on the other end of the line and he can practically see his mother pinching the bridge of her nose. But she doesn’t comment on it – thank the gods. “Your father and I will have a reservation at _Adder and Jewels_ next week,” she says. “We would like to extend the invitation to you as well.”

That...That has Jaskier a bit more awake. He somehow manages to wiggle out of Geralt’s arms just enough to sit up and set his back against the pillows of the bed, blinking against the dim morning light stretching in through the gaps of the drawn curtains. Geralt grunts and paws at him, still very much asleep, but Jaskier catches one of his hands and runs his thumb over the man’s knuckles.

“The _Adder and Jewels_?” he asks, a small frown knitting his brows. He knows the place. Nestled in the nicest district in Toussaint. Expensive and classy and bathed in gold, where the almost-noble and well-off families of the other districts flock to for their dinners and parties. Jaskier sets his lips. “Uh, sure. What...what for?”

There’s noise beyond Maura; the bustling streets of inner Redania, the business districts where busy people are always milling around on their way to somewhere else. It’s suffocating even listening to it, let alone trying to navigate the streets and weave through crowds flowing in either direction. It’s a world away from where he is now. Maura clicks her tongue. “It was your father’s idea. A dinner with us to discuss the final things in relation to your inheritance.”

A last supper. Or one last attempt to lure him back on to their side. Jaskier tries his best not to roll his eyes. He fidgets with Geralt’s hand, envious in how the man is slipping further and further into sleep. Gods alive, he wishes that were him.

Jaskier’s jaw bulges. “Sure,” he says. “Just, um, just text me when and I’ll be there.”

There’s a slight pause, and for a moment, Jaskier just considers hanging up. That’s when he hears it. “Would you like to invite your fiancé?”

And it has him pausing. It’s not Geralt’s name, because he’s sure that his mother might have forgotten it already, but it’s something. At least Geralt can be referred to by his title. He wants to wait, just until they’re married, and he’ll have to hear his parents refer to Geralt as his _husband_. He _might_ just hang around long enough for that day, whenever they decide on it.

It occurs to him that there’s been a lengthy pause of silence, and that he hasn’t actually answered the question. “Um,” he manages to stumble out, “I’ll ask him.” _Thank you_ hangs on the tip of his tongue, just because his mother did teach him right. But it feels odd sitting in his mouth. Should he thank her? Why? Before he can even think about saying it, Maura hums a brief _right then_ and _goodbye_ and he’s alone.

He blinks down at his phone for a moment, wondering what the actual fuck was that? His phone eventually blinks to black and he’s left alone in his room for a minute, with a fiancé that’s dead to the world asleep and his own mind to keep him company. The worst kind of company if he’s being honest.

Even asleep, Geralt squeezes his hand, burrowing his face further into Jaskier’s side. A silent invitation to come back down and go to sleep. Even though it’s wandered away, and his mind is too much of a maelstrom now to let him go back to sleep, he puts his phone away and burrows back to bed, sighing contently when Geralt wraps back around him and the warmth returns.

He breathes. It’s hard for a moment, his eyes dart over everything the faint morning light can highlight in his room. His mind is too busy. But Geralt sighs, burying his face into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. And for a moment, Jaskier listens and feels the rhythmic breaths puffed hotly against his skin, and he tries to match them.

* * *

**_Lambert : Red_ **

Geralt walks in to a battle scene. Muffled shouts and some sort of argument come up from the hallway, eventually reaching him as he clicks the front door shut. Lambert steps out of the living room, his arms firmly knitted over his chest and a firm scowl set into his face. All at once, Geralt is flung back to when they were kids; when Lambert used to scowl and frown in some effort to not make him look scared and frightened. Geralt’s eyes soften. “Where is he?” he asks, figuring that he could probably use the noise to guide him anyway.

Lambert’s lips thin. “His room,” he mumbles. Curls of fiery red hair tumble down onto his face. He doesn’t even try and tuck them behind his ear. Instead, before Geralt can inevitably ask if he’s alright or not, Lambert flees back into the living room.

Vesemir’s house has filled out in the time he’s lived out here. His books and things he’s collected over the years have found their new home in shelves and on tops of cabinets. Even though this wasn’t the house they all grew up in, it has that feeling to it. Geralt takes a measured breath as he stalks down towards Vesemir’s room, wincing as the argument spilling over between his father and brother gets increasingly louder.

“—said that if you were feeling sick we should call him—”

“—You are _not_ calling Vanderbeck, do you hear me, boy!”

Geralt sighs. He steps into Vesemir’s room and spots the light spilling out from the bathroom. Eskel stands in the midst of it, bathed in light, while Vesemir stays out of sight. A creaking floorboard gives him away and Eskel’s head snaps over to him. His expression softens slightly when he sees him, but he’s drawn back to the bathroom as a harsh cough crackles inside.

Eskel sighs something long and tired. “Dad,” he tries again, “we should call the doctor.”

He stays by the door, looking back down the hallway towards the living room. A simple text that had brought on so much panic, he’s surprised he didn’t encounter any police checks or cars to pull him over for speeding. A simple messaging system they’ve employed for years, originally built by Vesemir. Stoplights denoting the serious of a situation, to be quickly typed out and sent. Green was never used, but mostly sent back to Vesemir in the early days of his boys’ teenage years. When they did go out with their friends, partying into the late night and early morning, it was just to assure him that they were alright. Orange; something is happening or call me. And then there’s red – drop everything, come here right now.

Lambert used it the most. He didn’t like calling anyone for help, and despite the front he shrouds himself with, he’s still flinching and jumping of raised voices, even if they aren’t aimed at him.

Eskel goes to step into the bathroom, but a firm grunted _I’m okay_ is pushed out instead, stilling him in his tracks. He sets his hands on his hips.

Vesemir appears, wiping a cloth against the edge of his mouth. His eyes catch Geralt’s and a frown settles into his brow. “Great,” he grunts, laughing something dry and harsh. “The whole gang is here.”

A growl rumbles up Eskel’s throat. “You’re sick, do you understand that?”

“I understand it just fine, boy.” Vesemir’s face twists into something he’s only seen glimpses of. It isn’t pure anger. He’s never seen his father get angry – not that them, anyway. He can distantly remember bad customer interactions when he was a child and helping out in the garage’s office. But something sits behind his eyes, even though he tries to mask it with a frown and snarling lip. “And I would appreciate it if my own sons didn’t have to shadow me everywhere I went. You’re all making me feel like I’m dying.”

The silence that falls over them is deafening. Geralt glances over at Eskel, hands still perched firmly on his hips while he turns to stalk around the edge of the room. He keeps his voice low. “What happened?”

Eskel regards him for a moment. “I came over for a visit,” he begins, ignoring the sharp huff of a laugh from Vesemir, “a _visit_ and he didn’t look well. We had a small lunch and before he could even eat something, he started throwing up.”

A side-effect of the chemo. It isn’t the first time it has happened, and he suspects that it won’t be the last. The chemo isn’t aggressive, but it’s doing what it needs to do to help rid their father of whatever it is that has made a home in him.

They should call the doctor. He told them as much. Even though he explained every side effect he could have with the treatment, it’s best to call him and just be sure everything is fine. And that’s probably where the argument started.

Vesemir shuffles over to his bed, perching down on the edge of it and scrubbing his beard with the cloth. Geralt’s brows knit together. “We should call Vanderbeck,” he tries, lower than he would like, but it’s a different approach. He watches Vesemir’s shoulders tighten and loosen with a sigh, an argument perched on the tip of his tongue. Geralt glances over to Eskel. His brother shares his gaze for a moment before leaving the room, muttering something under his breath, but nothing that Geralt can recognise.

Eskel doesn’t close the door. His father’s house is small enough that he listens to Eskel’s footfalls span all the way down the hall, eventually pausing when he steps into the living room. He can deal with Lambert, drag him back up from drowning before he’s washed under completely.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Vesemir gets there before him.

“Chemo is hard on the body,” Vesemir says simply, as if reciting something on a pamphlet they were given as part of a package leaving the doctor’s office. Full of more patronising information that everything would be alright, and Geralt could _hear_ the tone that he hated so much. Apparently Vesemir hates it too. He huffs a quiet laugh, looking down at the cloth in his hands. His colour is slowly flushing back into his skin. He doesn’t look as pale as when Geralt came in.

But he still doesn’t look like he used to. Shadows cling to him now, gaunting his cheeks and eyes and stripping away the colour that used to be there. It’s only for now. Once he’s gone through the treatment and he’s better, they’ll have him back. And he can go back to gardening by himself, playing with and doting his granddaughter.

Geralt moves. He pads over to Vesemir, perching down beside him. His hands fumble on his lap, not quite sure what to do. “Eskel worries,” he says lowly, barely more than a whisper. He watches the words wash over the other man. “We all do. We just want you to be okay.”

Vesemir closes his eyes and sighs, drawing back in a long, steadying breath. “I _will_ be okay,” he replies. When he looks at Geralt, it’s with the same colourless eyes that they’re all slowly getting used to. Chemo sits in them now, swirling around and seeking out whatever it needs to get rid of. It isn’t its fault that it gets a bit vigorous with its job once in a while. He reaches out, setting a hand on to Geralt’s knee. “I have seen this all before, my boy. I know what cancer and the treatment for it looks like. I’ll be fine.”

Geralt’s brows knit together. His mouth opens to speak but Vesemir shakes his head. “You don’t have to worry. None of you do. I know I’m a stubborn old man, but I _can_ look after myself.”

Vesemir squeezes his knee, hoping that his words and point stick and that that will be the end of it. He grapples to his feet, wincing and grunting at the click of his joints and the strain of his muscles. He stands to full height and steadies himself for a moment. And when he has his breath gathered, and his muscles stop urging him to sit back down again, he looks like he always has; a strong man that used to carry three boys on his shoulders and back in the neighbourhood playground, helping them up on to the highest points of the jungle gyms and watching as they scaled up and down, trying to kick each other off.

Geralt’s throat bobs. He follows his dad out of his room, slowly as Vesemir reaches out to set a hand against the wall, guiding and steadying. Geralt isn’t too far behind him, ready to come to his side if he needs.

Eskel and Lambert are still in the living room, sitting near each other but on separate couches. Crowding Lambert will do nothing but curl him further in on himself. But Vesemir does pad over to his youngest son, wincing slightly as he sets a hand on to Lambert’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, lad,” he murmurs, reaching up to curl some of Lambert’s unruly hair behind his ear. “Are you alright?”

He’s always harboured a softer spot in his heart for his youngest boy.

Lambert lifts a shoulder. “We should be asking you that, old man,” he tries to laugh, and Vesemir matches it with his own quiet huff. But he nods. He’s alright, now that the storm is gone.

Eskel stands, shoving his hands into his pockets and stalking off towards the kitchen. Vesemir watches him go; flexing his hands by his side for a moment before following. Geralt stays dutifully out in the living room, with Lambert who sinks back into the plush cushions and takes a few measuring breaths. “Are you okay?” Geralt asks, watching his youngest brother carefully.

Lambert looks to him, and for a brief moment, he isn’t wearing his usual scowl or shit-eating grin. “Yeah,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. He can be loud and brash and such a pain in Geralt’s arse, it’s a wonder why he and Eskel didn’t just leave him at the playground when they were younger. But he’s reserved and can curl into himself too, and Geralt sets his hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezes it. He isn’t much for words, and Lambert isn’t one for hearing them. But the touch is enough that he nods, mostly to himself, and draws in a steady breath.

They’re fine. They’ll be okay. And there will be more of these moments. Vesemir is a stubborn old bastard who was briefly faced with his own mortality. He’s never needed help a day in his life; why would he start now? But he has three boys who do act like shadows, following him around everywhere and making sure he’s alright.

Geralt hears the rumblings of a conversation in the kitchen. He can only presume that Vesemir and Eskel are on speaking terms again. He expected a fire, scalding and engulfing everything. But he’s glad that it was just...a blip. They’ll have more, and the only thing he can do is take a steadying breath and somehow manage to grab them over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since Geralt and Jaskier have tumbled in a bed together...so there you go - a belated Christmas present 😂 Also developments in the Vesemir-household front. 
> 
> Hope all of you wonderful people have a peaceful and pleasant new year - it's the only thing we can all hope for at this point 😭😂


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some mild warning here for a pretty intense confrontation Jaskier has with his parents. It's nothing terribly triggering, but just as a warning, Jaskier says some things. 
> 
> Was it a way of venting my own frustrations? The answer may shock you.

He’s getting used to this; going to nice places with Jaskier and having to be armoured in nice clothing. It’s not lost on him that he’s wading into something deeper. This isn’t the usual kind of restaurant Jaskier lures him too; where they can still drink without having to worry about disturbing others, and spill out on to the streets and not have to look around for who may see. Redania, especially its inner circles, may be snobby, but the districts hold nothing over the entirety of Beauclair. It smells of gold and jewels, with it being used to line the streets and dazzle the lights lining them.

He’s out of his depth, and he knows that the second he spots a shining black car pull up outside Jaskier’s house. His eyes threaten to roll, but he just about manages to stop it when Jaskier shuffles down the stairs. It’s not that Geralt hasn’t seen him in a suit before. Jaskier has had shirts and pants tailored to him, clinging to him in the best ways. In the nicer restaurants he’s been lured to, Jaskier has taken the opportunity to dress up and for a brief moment, Geralt can see what he might have looked like walking around the streets of Redania, if he had followed down a path initially lain out for him.

But something is different now. He squirms in his suit – now with an added tie. He fumbles with it, doing it up, cinching it around his neck, and threading it through all over again. Geralt steps over to him, batting his hands away and doing it himself. Jaskier’s hands fall heavily to his side. “We’ll make this quick,” he mumbles, tilting his head back just enough for Geralt to fit the neck of his tie snugly against his throat. Geralt watches it bob and for a brief moment, he wants to lean forward and set his lips against the man’s skin.

Geralt hums. “We’re getting a free meal,” he murmurs, letting his fingers drift down Jaskier’s chest and fidget with the lapels of his jacket, smoothing them out and setting them flat against his chest. “We’ll eat as much as we can and then run for it.”

It lures a laugh out of Jaskier, and that’s all he can ever hope for. A faint gleam glints back in his eyes, and this time, Geralt does lean forward, pressing a kiss to the man’s cheek. He’s clean-shaven, scented with soap and cologne. It’s an intoxicating smell, and Geralt considers just staying there. But Jaskier sets his hands on to his chest and pushes him away, looking up at him with a lazy smile tugged across his lips. “Sounds like a plan,” he hums.

They’re jolted by the doorbell ringing. Jaskier sighs, curling his fingers into Geralt’s chest, but pulling away from him a moment later. He stretches out his hand. “Ready?”

Geralt stares at his hand, but takes it. “Ready.”

It’s not that he isn’t as armoured as Jaskier. A nice pair of black slacks clings to his legs and he rooted out the nicest, pressed white button-up could find, with a blazer fitted over it. He even managed to tame his hair into something manageable, light-coloured strands curled behind his ears and dusting his shoulders. If he’s going to war with Jaskier’s parents, he needed the right kind of armour.

Jaskier’s hand grips on to his as they step out of the house and come face to face with a man he’s never seen before. He’s older, maybe around the same age as Jaskier’s parents. His gaze drops down to their joined hands, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, they’re lead down towards the car, where who Geralt can only assume is the driver holds the door open for them. Jaskier bumbles out a curt _thank you_ , followed by what Geralt thinks is a name. He misses it, but mumbles his own thanks and slips in beside Jaskier.

For a moment, while the door is shut and the driver rounds the car, Geralt takes a moment to look at Jaskier. He fumbles with his hands and the hem of his jacket, trying to quieten whatever is running wild around in his head. Geralt reaches out, capturing one of his hands in his. He gentles his thumb over Jaskier’s knuckles. _I’m here. You’re okay_. It doesn’t have to be said anymore. Jaskier knows. He slouches slightly back into the seat of the car.

* * *

The _Adder and Jewel_ is as dazzling as every other restaurant lining the street. Cars parked outside don’t linger there for too long, dropping their patrons off before disappearing back down the street. The front of the restaurant is a mixture of marble and steel and glass, offering a look inside the building. Already, without even having set a foot inside of it, Geralt knows that he’s out of his depth. But Jaskier squeezes his hand; for both of them, to settle the last of the nerves trying to bubble up and seize them.

Jaskier’s parents are already inside, seated in their own booth to the side of the restaurant. Geralt’s stomach twists at the sight of them – seeing Jaskier’s father in person for the first time. He shouldn’t be afraid. But when Alfred Pankratz glances over and spots them, levelling them with a firm stare, it takes everything in him not to drag Jaskier back towards the door and make a run for it.

Maura stands first, rounding the table and holding out her hands for her son. “Julian,” she greets, offering a small smile when Jaskier takes her hands and plants a chaste, quick kiss on to the knuckles. She turns to Geralt, running her eyes over him. “Geralt,” she says in the same tone, and that does surprise him. Their last meeting wasn’t...pleasant.

They’re both led to the other side of the table, sat opposite both of Jaskier’s parents, facing them down as some united front. Geralt’s shoulders tense and hunch the moment they’re both seated in their chairs, fidgeting and fumbling with their own plates and cutlery for a moment.

Maura is the first to take a crack at breaking the tension, and he doesn’t quite know if he wants to thank her for it. “It’s nice to see you both again,” she smiles. It’s all teeth and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s a front, just like the rest of what’s surrounding them. The gold and gems sparkling from the walls and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling; even the air tangs with perfume and it’s enough to make him choke.

Alfred doesn’t quite look at him, but instead, seems to focus all of his attention on Jaskier. “Where have you been?” he asks. Geralt has to stop himself from frowning. The man’s voice sounds deeper and raspier than he thought it would be. Nothing at all like how Jaskier sounds. But he can only imagine that years being at the head of a corporation like his, gathering and maintaining a monopoly spanning the entire borough, it’s tempted him to cigarettes and whiskey.

Jaskier sits stock-still in his chair, ramrod straight as he squares his shoulders. “Finishing my degree,” he replies with, simple and curt. Something brief flashes over Alfred’s face. Finishing a degree that he paid for, but didn’t want. Geralt schools his expression into something neutral. Jaskier reaches for his wine glass, catching the foot of it between his thumb and finger and examining the gleam of it against the dazzling overhead lights. Jaskier makes his voice clear, even through the slight hum of conversations swirling around them from other tables. “Then I’ve spent the last couple of years building my career. Like you did, when you started out.”

Geralt can feel Jaskier turn to him, albeit only slightly. “And then I met this man and,” Jaskier’s eyes lower to Geralt’s hand. He didn’t mean to leave it on the table, but it sits quite comfortably beside his own wine glass. The glow from the lights overhead catches the gold flecks in his ring. Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “Well, I can only presume you heard the news.”

Someone would have told him, if he didn’t manage to find out himself. And Alfred sits with what Jaskier just presented him with for a moment. Coming to a nice restaurant out of their own home, it puts them in a slight advantage. Jaskier squirms slightly because he’s being dragged back into a life he trudged and fought his way out of years ago, shaking off the last couple of tendrils within the past couple of years. And Geralt has never seen this much glamour stuffed into one place. Women are dressed in long dresses, their hands and ears and necks adorned with jewellery. And their men are armoured in suits with stern faces, and even their smiles around jokes seem forced and unnatural.

Alfred’s lips thin, but he nods and plucks his glass from the table, swirling his own wine for a moment before lifting it. “Well, congratulations,” he says, taking a measured sip.

At the first sight of the waitress coming over for their order, it’s a small moment for Geralt to breathe. He wants to thank the woman, who might just be able to feel the tension sitting with them at the table. Geralt defers to Jaskier, whatever he has, because even though everything on the menu looks familiar – scallops and racks of lamb and desserts he’s sure are going to be tiny flecks of things on plates.

When the waitress offers them a curt smile, taking their menus away and disappearing into the expanse of the restaurant, Alfred clears his throat. “I’m not sure if your mother told you this,” he says gruffly, “but this is a formality. If it were up to me, I would have drawn up the contracts without you and sent them to your home to sign.” He sends his wife a sideways glance. The corners of his lips tighten.

Jaskier nods. “I know,” he says simply. He knows a lot of things. This is only a nicety offered by his mother – one last meal together before Jaskier probably never sees them again. It’s a chance for his parents to try and figure out what it is Jaskier’s life has become, and how best they can crawl under Geralt’s skin. Maybe it’s one last attempt at trying to splinter him away from their son. If Geralt can’t handle the dazzling lights and gems of higher Redanian life, he’ll sink and drown.

But he squares his shoulders as best as he can, looking anywhere else but at Alfred’s curious but piecing gazes at him.

Their food can’t come fast enough.

* * *

It’s a simple fix. Well, it’s simple in Jaskier’s eyes anyway. He doesn’t want – or need – his parents' money, so they might as well just give it to Izzy. He doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse that she’s not here. He would have liked to have seen her one last time. Maybe his parents have already turned her against him already. Gods only know what kinds of things they’ve been telling her about him, about Geralt. And that hurts the most. He won’t be able to see his little sister again; someone he barely got to see anyway, considering he spent so much time at Oxenfurt, being free and himself for the first time in his life.

Food distracts from the need to talk. If they’re picking at intricately made and designed plates of food, they’re not trading comments at each other. But Maura still keeps the conversation going, even though Jaskier would really appreciate it crawling into a ditch to die.

“Geralt, I never got to ask,” she lilts as soon as they’re finishing their first course. Geralt’s head snaps up at being addressed, but Jaskier has to give him credit and keep his expression cool and collected. His father might still be wearing a soft scowl etched into his face, but Maura idly sips from her glass, looking much more approachable. “Are you in charge of your business up in Kaedwen? I seem to remember someone mentioning something about a Vesemir Morhen working there.”

“Vesemir Morhen,” Alfred grunts. “I’ve heard of him. Some of the others at the office used to get their cars serviced by him. A fine mechanic.”

Geralt thins his lips. “He retired,” he offers simply. “He said he was getting too old for the work and put me in charge.” Vesemir’s _exact_ words wouldn’t be welcomed in a restaurant-setting like here, so he keeps them to himself. But Geralt takes a measured sip of water, letting it put some moisture back in his drying mouth. “I’ve been over if for three years now.”

Alfred wipes the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Have you ever thought of expanding?” he asks. “A viable business like yours would do well in the other boroughs; not lost that far north in somewhere like Kaedwen.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow slightly, but Geralt jumps in before he can have a chance to say something. “Our reputation does enough for us for now. You said it yourself, sir; we have clients coming to us from Redania and other boroughs. Why would we risk spending a small fortune on a new secondary location when we might not have the clientele to support them both? It’s best to stay where we are.”

It’s a conversation they’ve all had before. And it’s a thought that has passed Geralt’s mind more than once. Opening up a second shop sounds like a good idea – but the funds for it are tight, and Geralt doesn’t even want to think about trying to hire new staff to cover both areas. They’re staying in Kaedwen.

Alfred muses over Geralt’s words for a moment before nodding. “An excellent point,” he agrees, sitting back in his seat to let a waiter take their plates. But he isn’t quite done with Geralt yet. “And can a mechanic’s wages support a family? Maura tells me that you have a baby.”

Geralt’s mouth sours slightly. Ciri is so good and pure, she doesn’t deserve to be brought up in a conversation like this, spoken about by people like Alfred Pankratz. But he just about manages to swallow down on a growl. “I do what I can,” he offers simply.

“And the girl’s mother?” Maura asks, head tilted slightly. “Is she around to help or...?”

“She is,” Jaskier interjects. “She’s a lawyer in a firm in Aedirn. Between Geralt and the girl’s mother, and me, we’re doing just fine.”

Geralt rumbles beside him. It’s quiet and barely carries itself over the hum of conversation and clinking of glasses and plates at the tables around them, but Jaskier hears it. And he lets his hand drift underneath the table, settling it firmly on Geralt’s thigh.

They don’t have the most conventional of families, but Jaskier is happy to actually call it one.

When their main courses are set in front of them, Geralt keeps a mental note of where they are in terms of the meal. _Half-way through_. Just a quick dessert left and they can go. He keeps watch of Jaskier out of the corner of his eye, and he’s sure that Jaskier is doing the same to him. Both of them making sure that they’re not going to either bolt or grab one of the steak knives and leap across the table.

Alfred hums under his breath, keeping his eyes focused on the food in front of him. “Maura posed a solution to our problems the other day,” he lilts. At his side, his wife stiffens slightly. She doesn’t quite look over at him, but she does falter in cutting up her steak. The second Geralt notices, she continues on as if nothing happened. Alfred huffs a short laugh. “Though I’m not sure what good it would do. I wasn’t even aware that there was a problem until our boy started making one.”

Jaskier’s hand stills. “And what problem is that?” he asks slowly, almost regretting the question the second it bumbles out of his lip. He should have learned his lesson by now. _Never rise to them. Let them say what they need to say and just ignore it. Stop fucking talking back to them—_

“I paved a path for you,” Alfred snips. When his eyes lift to meet Jaskier, he has to stop himself from cowering into himself. He squares his shoulders, lifting his chin, letting his father see him for what he’s made of himself. Alfred snorts. “Others would have killed for the opportunities you were given. The finest education money could buy. A well-paying job at the end of your studies. A stable job that would carry you through the rest of your life. And what did you do with all of these gifts I offered you?” Alfred’s eyes change. They glower and the arch of his lip lifts. “You threw them back in my face, for what? To become some indie, free-world musician, falling in with a man with a child and no prospects for the future?”

Geralt’s brows knit together.

“Alfred,” Maura murmurs, setting her cutlery down for a moment. “We said that we would—”

“It’s _my_ money,” he snaps. His face twists into something dark and vile. “ _I_ decide what is to be done with it. And I will not have it going into the bank account of a man who flits through life without a care in the world: who isn’t grateful enough to even acknowledge the sacrifices I made for him.”

Jaskier snorts. The laugh that bursts out of him is laugh and almost hysteric. “What sacrifices? I can’t seem to remember any. Not that you were around often enough to let me see you. You were always in the office. And when you weren’t, you fucked off to some country club out in Toussaint.”

Maura frowns. “Julian—”

Geralt stays still. He’s pretty sure he’s frozen in place, only because one sudden movement and Jaskier might explode. He’s quickly barrelling down a path that, if Geralt can’t wrangle him back, he’ll say something he regrets. Or he’ll say something that’s been nestled inside of his chest for years, and it’s finally fighting its way out. Geralt splays one leg to the side, nudging his knee against Jaskier’s. A soft warmth blooms through where they touch, but it doesn’t seem to be enough.

Measured and composed, Jaskier sets his cutlery down and takes a steady breath. “I appreciate what you tried to do for me,” Jaskier says firmly. The backs of his eyes start to sting and his throat is clamping down on his words, but he pushes them out regardless. “You gave me a roof over my head, food, an education. I appreciate that. But you’re my fucking parents. You don’t get to request a medal for providing your only child with the bare necessities.”

Jaskier leans forward, making sure his words stick. “You did a shitty fucking job in being _parents_ , though. When I started struggling in Oxenfurt, and I told you about it, you both told me to just get over myself. I was a student in the most famous university in the Continent. I should just suck it up. When I tried to tell you about Valdo Marx, you both told me that I was probably just over-reacting. When I told you that I wanted to start seeing a therapist, you both convinced me that nothing was wrong with me, and I was just being ungrateful for everything life had given me.”

It’s free-flowing now. There’s no hope in stopping it. All Geralt can hope is that even though his words hold firm, Jaskier keeps his tone low and measured. He takes a quick glance around. No one has heard them. Not that he can tell, anyway. But he still wonders if people are hushing their own conversations to listen in. It seems like something people living around here would do.

Jaskier lets out a dry, sharp laugh. “You’re angry that I’m making a life for myself because you have no involvement or say in it whatsoever.” He crumples his napkin, setting it down beside his plate. Geralt mirrors him. He knows Jaskier wants to leave. “I don’t need anything from either of you. Whatever plans you had to try and fix this, fuck it. I’m done. You can’t speak to me like I’ve done something wrong anymore. You can’t try and judge anything about my life, because you have no fucking clue how much work I’ve put in to make it good.”

Jaskier stands, with Geralt following half a second later. He blinks at the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers curling into his, their hands joined and settled firmly between them. Jaskier’s jaw is set and tight. “Give the inheritance to Izzy,” he says firmly. “I don’t want a fucking penny from either of you. I have everything I need.”

And with that, they’re going. Jaskier leads them out, turning quickly on his heel and barrelling through the restaurant. His hand is still curled tightly around Geralt, and he’s half-dragging the man along with him. But Geralt is practically stuck to Jaskier’s back, making sure that he heads straight for the door, and doesn’t have an opportunity to turn back around and lay into his parents again.

What he said – that’s good. That’s where he can leave it. They can leave Alfred and Maura Pankratz with the knowledge that Jaskier has done everything himself, without help from them, and that he’s happy and content with the job he’s done of it.

They dart past a bewildered-looking waitress, but no one makes an effort to stop them. Stepping out on to the streets of Beauclair is an assault. The winter air bites at their skin, and anyone walking the streets outsides merely drifts around them as they bundle passed.

Geralt had enough wherewithal to grab their coats before they left. He drapes Jaskier’s over his shoulder, watching the man’s shoulders quicken with every breath he pulls in. Geralt’s hands linger on Jaskier’s shoulders, rubbing gently, trying to settle his growing nerves and warm his skin. “You’re alright,” he mumbles. Even if it doesn’t reach Jaskier, he’ll still say it. The man’s eyes dart around, taking in the glowing streetlamps and dazzling store-fronts looking out on to the street.

Jaskier shudders as he breathes out. “Let’s go,” he mumbles. Geralt doesn’t even have to look at him to know that the man’s eyes are already starting to hood. Geralt’s hands fall away from his shoulders, but he’s quick to loop an arm through one of Jaskier’s, holding the man close. Jaskier settles, if not only slightly. His lungs fill with crisp winter air and his shoulders slacken. But even through the hum of noise in the streets around them, Geralt can hear the other man’s head alive with thoughts; possibly replaying everything he had just let spill out from his lips, and everything he wanted to say.

They’ll get a taxi back to Jaskier’s house, and he’s willing to pay for the journey home. At the first free car they happen upon, Geralt bundles Jaskier into the backseat and gives the directions to the driver.

It’s a quiet drive home. All he can focus on is the sounds of Jaskier breathing beside him and the soft hum of the driver’s radio. Within a few minutes of pulling away from the restaurant and starting their drive home, Jaskier slumps into his side. Wordlessly, Geralt curls an arm around the man’s shoulder, bringing him close.

“I’m so proud of you,” he rumbles, pressing a lingering kiss on to the crown of Jaskier’s head. His fingers reach up, carding through soft strands of hair. With each street they pass, and the subtle change of buildings and scenery, Jaskier melts further into him. Geralt keeps his words soft and brief. Jaskier could very well be crashing, coming down from a peaking high, and now starting to tumble down without any chance of stopping himself. _You did what you had to do. I’m proud of you._

Jaskier burrows his head underneath Geralt’s jaw, sighing when his nose settles against Geralt’s skin. He breathes in lungfuls of the man’s scent and cologne, letting it coat the roof of his mouth. He wants to get home; to strip their clothes off and bundle Geralt into bed and just wrap around him until they’re not sure where one of them begins and the other ends. And they’re nearly home. Jaskier just about manages to swallow a whine at the familiar stretch of red brick buildings outside of the window. _They’re nearly home_. Geralt’s arm tightens around him.

When the car eventually rolls to a stop outside of Jaskier’s house, Geralt pulls away to hand the driver whatever is owed, and Jaskier just about manages to swallow down on a whine.

He’s quick to lure Jaskier out of the back of the taxi, wrapping his coat tighter around him, and leading him into the house. It wasn’t too long ago when they left. The lights curled around the wrought iron railings are still on, as is the living room light. Just inside of the bay window jutting out from the wall, Geralt spots Pris and Essi sprawled on the couch, flicking through some TV shows.

There’s a plan in place. Get Jaskier inside and straight upstairs. If Pris or Essi or Shani, if she’s around, sees the state his parents left him in, there will be warfare. And he’s really not in the mood to try and deal with it right now.

The door clicks open and shut. Jaskier shrugs off his coat and Geralt places it and his own on the hooks just inside of the door. Jaskier can stand by himself. But even when Geralt just wanders away for a moment to put his keys into the bowl beside the door, two familiar arms coil around his waist and drag him back. Geralt catches Jaskier’s arms, huffing a small laugh. “Alright,” he hums, “come on, darling. Let’s get you to bed.”

It’s early, but exhaustion is slowly starting to settle into Jaskier’s muscles and bones, keeping his feet shuffling and trudging along the floor. Even navigating each step upstairs is difficult, especially with Jaskier insisting on hanging on to his middle and slumping against him.

When they reach the landing, somehow unscathed, Geralt shepherds Jaskier into his room and sets his fingers to the buttons of his blazer and shirt. A loose smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. “Eager,” he chuckles lightly.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’re going to sleep,” he says firmly, making sure to look the other man straight in the eye.

Jaskier nods. “Alright,” he murmurs, trying to reach up to help. His fingertips are numb and he fumbles every second button – but Geralt is quick to help and shed Jaskier of all of his clothes, except for his underwear. He nods towards the bed. “Get in,” he orders, reaching for his own clothes.

Jaskier shuffles across the floor, feet never quite leaving the ground to take a full step. Geralt frowns lightly at the sight of the man all but falling into bed, waving an arm heavily around, grabbing blankets and bundling them over him.

Geralt joins him as quickly as he can. The second he slides underneath the sheets, he barely has time to settle down on the mattress before Jaskier moulds himself to his side. Geralt sighs, curling an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and holding him close. His other hand is captured in one of Jaskier’s, their fingers interlacing and locking together.

Geralt hums, turning just enough to rest his lips on the man’s forehead. “Sleep,” he murmurs, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jaskier mumbles something. It’s entirely lost into Geralt’s shoulder, but within seconds, Geralt feels the man slumping and growing heavier by his side, all but sinking into him. When he’s sure that sleep has taken him under, he lets his eyes close. It might be a while for sleep to come for him. His priority is Jaskier. And now Jaskier is with him, in his own house, within his arms. And the ghosts of everyone else is left at the door.


	38. Chapter 38

Yennefer looks at him over the rim of her mug. “So he turned them down?”

“Rather spectacularly,” Geralt rumbles, rocking Ciri against his chest. She cranes her head as much as she’s able to, trying to get a good look at her surroundings, even trapped against him in a cloth wrap slung around his torso. With every day that passes, she seems more and more keen to start exploring the world. The day she manages to get her legs underneath her and starts taking her first wobbling steps, he’ll be lost.

Yennefer regards him for a moment before thinning her perfectly painted lips. “Hmm,” is all she replies with, leaving it firmly at that. Though he can still see something swirling around in the back of her eyes.

They’ve all had some brush with their parents in some way; some of them more harrowing than others. And Geralt can’t help but think of it as some kind of blessing that he really can’t remember much of his birth parents. It brings its own heartache; when he looks down on Ciri and knows that she’ll have his face etched into her mind for her whole life, and Geralt can’t even remember if his mother’s eyes were blue or green. It hurts. But he looks at people like Yennefer and Jaskier, people healing from freshly cut wounds, and he has to defer to them and their own feelings and thoughts. He might not have had a good start in life, but everything since then, since landing in Vesemir’s home and their family built around them, it’s been good.

The cafe she’s picked is quieter than usual. They used to come here all the time, when Yennefer would steal an hour from work for lunch and Geralt would drive out to meet her. It still looks the same, albeit now infested with plants he can only assume are fake and local writers and office workers sitting shoulder to shoulder, pouring over work on their laptops.

It’s been a while since he’s been here. The last time was in the last few dying days of them being together. Now, they’re holding firmer than ever, conjoined by a baby, babbling senselessly against Geralt’s chest, not very interested in the fruit and yoghurt bought for her.

Yennefer smiles, reaching out to catch Ciri’s waving hand in hers. And Ciri shrills a laugh when she wraps her whole hand around Yennefer’s finger, grabbing on to it and shaking it about. It’s the simple things in life, apparently.

The gentle hum of the cafe is just enough for her, it seems. The hanging bulb lights and their wire fixtures, the smells of brewing coffee and baked goods lining the front, it’s all grabbing her attention. And Geralt can’t stomach one more walk around the local park, even with the dark grey clouds heavy with rain starting to tumble in.

Yennefer takes another measured sip of her coffee, letting it and her words stew on his tongue for a moment. “I have to give it to him,” she says, still with one hand firmly captured by her daughter, “I wouldn’t have turned it down.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. After all the shitty things he’s heard from her family about her, about the both of them, he’s sure that Yennefer might have done the same. She made her own way in life, carved out for her by herself.

She lifts a shoulder. “Would have made getting through college a bit easier,” she muses. “Though, my parents don’t own most of Redania’s business sector. Would have liked to have seen it, though; him giving it straight to his parents. Why didn’t you record it? Or livestream it at the very least. What a missed opportunity.”

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh. “I was too busy trying to get him out of there, Yenn,” he rumbles. Ciri peers back up at him, as she often does whenever he speaks. She’s stopped frowning at him, wondering why her father’s chest trembles against her cheek whenever she’s trying to sleep. Instead, he thinks he sees her lips start to form around some of the babbles coming out of her mouth. Gods alive, he hopes he’s around for her first word.

They only have an hour. Yennefer’s firm lingers in the distance, another high-rise building reaching into the dark clouds settling over the city. She’s still armoured in her suit for the day; a soft, pastel purple with a grey button-up shirt. She’s a bright burst of colour on days like this, even surrounded by businessmen and woman with greyscaled, dreary clothing and permanent frowns etched into their faces.

Geralt nods to Ciri’s lunch, something she took all but three bites of before fussing and burying her face into his chest. The worst of her sudden mood seems to be waning though. He tries it again; reaching out for the plastic baby spoon, scooping just enough of the plain yoghurt rippled with crushed raspberries. Ciri spots it out of the corner of her eye, regarding it with all the disdain an eight-month-old baby can have for food.

“How’s Vesemir?”

The name sounds so strange on her lips. She doesn’t speak to Vesemir much – certainly not when they were broken up. If she ventured that far out into the countryside, there was a very real encounter with a pissed off Vesemir, and not even Geralt could have helped her. But now he’s seen them in Vesemir’s kitchen at parties at his house, when she passes Ciri to him and laughs when the baby makes a grab at his beard.

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “Fine,” he offers simply.

There’s a short huff of laughter. “Is that an actual Fine or a Geralt-Fine?” she muses, a small smirk lilting along her lips. “Because the difference is staggering.”

Geralt snorts. She knows the difference all too well. “An actual Fine,” he replies, taking some small victory in getting Ciri to eat a few more spoonfuls of her lunch. She fusses with the last few spoonfuls, squirming away from it and burying her face back into Geralt’s chest. At least she ate something, and he can add raspberries into the Ciri Hates This list.

Yennefer hums. Something lingers on the tip of her tongue. “I know it’s not an easy thing to talk about,” she murmurs, mindful of the quietness that laps over the cafe. Even with people sitting nearby, most of their heads are buried into books and laptops, and there’s a gentle murmur of conversation between those meeting over coffee. Geralt regards her for a moment. “How are you getting on with finances? I know chemo can get expensive.”

He fights down a sigh, just about managing to trap it behind his teeth and swallow it. He looks down at the baby bundled against his chest, rocking her gently as hiccups bubble out of her. “We’re fine,” he says, though this one doesn’t sound as convincing as the last. And Yennefer can tell. She’s always eerily good at reading him. “We, uh, we added up the costs and budgeted where else we can.”

A slight frown knits her brows.

Geralt rushes with his words. “Not with Ciri, of course,” he bumbles, “she gets everything she wants. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell her _no_. But, uh, bills and stuff might get tight, so we’re trying to take on more customers at the garage—”

A held up hand stops him in his tracks. Yennefer’s eyes sear through his, and he struggles not to drop his gaze and slink away. “Geralt,” she says firmly, “if you need help, you know I’m here. Right?”

He does. She’s made it evidently clear in the days post-Vesemir’s test results coming back. And the question lingers in the back of his mind; _just ask her. She already said she would help_.

Ciri babbles, reaching up through the sling wrapped around her and setting her tiny fist against his chin. She has his full attention; and even his tiny baby daughter seems to glower at him. She’s definitely Yennefer’s daughter, already tired of her father’s silly self-preservation shit.

He sighs. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “yeah, I know. Thank you, you don’t have to. But, uh...yeah”

Yennefer tilts her head. _So?_

Health insurance takes most of the brunt. As Vesemir trudged further into his senior years, albeit grumpily, he made sure his insurance was up to date; and Geralt thanks every god he can remember the name of that he did. But even still, the consultation fees and tests were a lot to handle, and the drugs used for the therapy, it’s eye-watering.

Geralt swallows. “We, uh,” he rumbles, finally looking up at Yennefer. “We could do with some help.”

* * *

There is a universal agreement not to tell Vesemir, all having to do with not putting any unnecessary stress on the man who already seems to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Vesemir can’t know that they’re worried about funds. As it is, the man already thinks that he’s paying out most of the treatments. And he is. But other costs start to wade in, and they would like their father to have some gold left by the end of all of this. And it’s not that Vesemir hates Yennefer. He still watches the woman carefully, knowing how much of a spitfire she was in the years of her and Geralt being together, but Ciri seems to have tempered most of that. Though Yennefer is still prone to flashing brightly.

There’s a shared bank account for the treatments, manned by all of Vesemir’s sons. Yennefer’s contribution to it raises some eyebrows, and has Lambert slipping into Geralt’s room one afternoon. Arms folded over his chest, resting against the frame of the door, Lambert cocks his head. “You _do_ know that he’ll kill you if he finds out?” he asks.

Geralt looks up from his laptop. A few more jobs left to do for the day and he’ll be done. And he really doesn’t need his youngest brother grating on the last of his nerves. “I know,” he says gruffly, turning back to send the last of his emails off to some new suppliers for the garage.

Lambert hums. “The old bastard finds out everything,” he lilts. “Good luck trying to hide it from him. You won’t even get a funeral. He’ll hide the body somewhere, probably in his backyard.”

“It’s a generous donation from his granddaughter’s mum,” Geralt rumbles, keeping his eyes firmly locked on his computer screen. Lambert only lingers when he knows that he can lure a rise out of someone. If he keeps his attentions away from the younger man, maybe he’ll slink away.

But Lambert is a stubborn pup, and Geralt shouldn’t have even replied to him in the first place. “Going with the granddaughter angle,” Lambert whistles. “That’s low. He’s a poor vulnerable cancer patient, Geralt. How could you?”

Maybe if he threw a pen at the door, Lambert might just go away. Geralt considers it for a moment, but decides that he needs everything on his desk. He returns to his work. A few orders to send, emails to reply to, and a quick run over of the day’s invoices; then he can go to Jaskier’s house. He might type out his emails quicker, uncaring if any spelling mistakes pop up, just to have them done. And he runs his eyes quickly over reports, just making sure that the number at the end matches what it should be.

He just needs Jaskier. And the need settled within the core of his chest, twisting his stomach and clenching his heart, it still startles him. It wasn’t something he had with anyone else before, with Yennefer. Yennefer was a wildfire that burned everything in its path, and it eventually burnt itself out. The thought of slumping against Jaskier on his couch, mindlessly watching some movie his housemates will inevitably fight over, or curling around him for the night, bundling him close and away from the cold outside, it’s already washing warmth over him.

Lambert eventually drifts away, knowing that as soon as Geralt finishes with his work, he’ll scamper out of their apartment and rush to Redania. The moment he’s finished, he has just enough wherewithal to turn his laptop off before darting out of his room, gathering a jacket and beanie for the sharp winds outside that have started to howl.

With his work done and Ciri with her mum, Geralt barely manages to hurl a quick _bye_ down the hall before leaving his apartment.

* * *

They have keys for each other’s places. And maybe those should have come before the ring, but the question just bumbled out of Jaskier’s lips before he could clench his jaw shut, and here they are.

Jaskier is in the kitchen when he steps inside, shrugging his jacket and hat off by the door and hanging them up. A gentle hum of softly sung music drifts up the hallway. It takes a moment for Geralt to recognise the voice as Jaskier’s. Geralt heads for the kitchen, lured by the soft rasp of Jaskier’s voice. It takes another minute for him to notice that Jaskier isn’t singing, but it’s a recording.

Jaskier hums along, not even noticing Geralt slowly step into the kitchen; a loose smile sitting on his lips as he watches the man slowly sway along to the lull of the music. He likes the quiet moments between them. When he pads downstairs in the mornings, when Jaskier has somehow managed to slip away from him when he wakes up, and Geralt finds him dancing and singing to himself in the kitchen. Or when the long nights roll in and they’re strewn on the couch, thoroughly entangled with each other. Jaskier’s fingers always manage to find the swell muscle of his shoulders, dusting his fingertips over it and luring him down into sleep. Or he’ll card his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

Geralt’s smile stretches across his lips, crinkling his glinting eyes. With his back to him, Jaskier doesn’t see him slowly stalk forward, reaching out to snag his arms around his waist.

Jaskier jolts, trying to spin around in Geralt’s arms and failing. “Geralt! Gods alive!” he yelps. “Don’t fucking do that!” Despite it all, once his heart has shocked itself back into rhythm and his breath begins to level back out again, Jaskier sinks into the man’s hold.

Geralt perches his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder, looking down at the workspace laden with the beginnings of dinner. Roast chicken and vegetables, with the air somewhat tinted with lemon and garlic. He hums. The music still lulls from somewhere. Jaskier’s phone, probably. He sways them both, a gentle movement that absolutely has no interference with Jaskier’s skills of cutting up some carrots and potatoes. Eventually, with a slight huff, the man sets his knife down and catches Geralt’s hands in his.

“Is this your latest song?” Geralt asks, most of the words lost to the soft cotton of Jaskier’s tee. He’s warm and smells familiar, and Geralt inhales as much of his scent as he can, letting it coat the roof his mouth.

Jaskier hums, dinner preparation entirely forgotten about. “What do you think?”

He loves everything Jaskier does, and how many more times can he say and show it to the man? A hum rumbles out of the core of his chest. “I like it,” he murmurs, dusting light kisses along the join of Jaskier’s neck and jaw. The man’s head lolls to the side, letting Geralt’s lips wander. Jaskier’s skin is warm and flushes under his attention. And his hands tighten over his as he leans back into him, almost sunk completely into his chest.

Geralt only stops trailing kisses along the ridge of the man’s jaw when he hears the familiar padding of Shani’s footsteps upstairs. She’s heading for the staircase, but Geralt can’t bring himself to part with the other man just yet. He still has Jaskier firmly trapped, but rests his chin back on Jaskier’s shoulder.

Shani steps into the kitchen and doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “Hello Geralt,” she hums, striding effortlessly over to the fridge to fish out some snacks and a drink.

Geralt hums, shuffling around to look at Shani. He drags Jaskier around with him, smiling as the man attempts to loosen Geralt’s hold on him. “Hi Shani,” he replies.

Jaskier’s housemates are far too comfortable on walking in when Geralt is trying to kiss the other man. Plying kisses and wandering hands have all had to pause and retreat because of the house apparently being too small. Shani glances over her shoulder. “Essi wants to know will you be much longer getting dinner ready.” She nods to the food scattered in front of Jaskier. “We’re starving.”

The man barely manages to hold back a balk, gesturing to the two firm arms bound around his waist. “I’d be done sooner if I wasn’t trapped.”

Geralt muffles a quiet laugh into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. His arms loosen, but not by much. It’s enough for Jaskier to turn and loop his arms around Geralt’s neck. He steals a quick kiss from Geralt; one that manages to steal his breath and curl his toes, even if it’s only a peck of Jaskier’s lips.

And within seconds, Jaskier pulls away, freeing himself from Geralt’s hold. He drifts back to the countertop, to the awaiting dinner still scattered there and almost done. Shani slips away from the kitchen, bundling whatever snacks and drinks she could grab back upstairs to her own room.

Jaskier huffs when Geralt shadows him, standing flush against his back and settling his hands on to his hips. A light laugh bubbles up the man’s throat. “Gods, what’s brought all of this on?” Jaskier asks, not taking his eyes off of cutting up the last of the vegetables. “You’re never this clingy.”

He really isn’t. He likes having Jaskier close to him, and he’ll curl around the man whenever he can, but now he can’t physically cope with the idea of having Jaskier stray too far away from him. He gives Jaskier just enough space to work on dinner, but not enough to part with him for too long.

He hums against the stretch of Jaskier’s neck, burrowing his nose into the join of his neck and shoulder and breathing in the familiar scent of him. It settles on the roof of his mouth and curls into every muscle and bone he has. His shoulders drop when he’s with Jaskier. He can breathe in the man’s house, when he’s with him, and forget about the rest of the world. Even on his worse days, all those months ago, he would burrow a nest for himself here and hope that everything would just move along.

Eventually, though, Jaskier finishes with putting the seasoned and dressed vegetables and chicken into a roasting tray and he glances over to the oven. “Unless you want to try and waddle over there with me,” Jaskier lilts, nudging Geralt, “I suggest that you let go. I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”

Jaskier slips away from him, as Geralt tries not to shiver at the cold chill that nips at his chest and arms the moment the other man is gone. But he’s always true to his word. The second Jaskier shoves the tray into the oven, and sets the timer, he strolls back and loops his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, linking his hands behind his neck. Geralt’s arms find his waist, curling around and gathering him close.

A light laugh huffs out of him. “So, what’s up?” Jaskier lulls, tilting his head to the side and letting them both sway. His soft voice lilts in the background, the new song gently humming around them. And it’s nice; Jaskier has a nice voice, and Geralt just likes listening to it in the quieter moments. When it’s just the two of them and Geralt is lying in bed, half-asleep and dozing, with Jaskier perched nearby with his guitar, humming and plucking at strings.

Geralt leans down, setting their foreheads together. “Just missed you,” he murmurs. He doesn’t know who’s rocking who, but they sway gently from side to side, almost dancing along to Jaskier’s song lilting in the background.

Jaskier chuffs another laugh. “I’m right here,” he beams, pushing back against Geralt’s forehead and stealing one last kiss from him. His arms slowly slide back from Geralt’s neck and shoulders, with his hands settling on the firm expanse of his chest. “Come on, the girls will be upstairs until dinner. We have the living room and TV to ourselves.”

Geralt just about manages to part with him. Though, a smile still lingers on his lips when Jaskier catches his hand and threads their fingers together. The other man fishes his phone out of his pocket and turns off the music, and the silence left behind is almost deafening. He takes a second to mourn the loss of Jaskier’s lulling voice overhead. Maybe when someone finally takes him up on producing his music, he’ll be able to hear it a lot more. Not that Jaskier doesn’t sing around him. It’s his favourite thing to do – even if he’s not aware that he’s doing it, he’ll hum and mumble words under his breath when he thinks no one is listening. And Geralt cherishes the soft flush of colour that warms his cheeks when he finally notices that people _are_ listening, and he tries to flee the room entirely.

Jaskier leads them into the living room; the hearth already lit and warming the room, lighting it in a soft orange glow, and the TV a gentle hum in the background. It has always been such a contrast to everything outside. Jaskier pulls him down on to the couch, gathering him close against him and flicking through TV channels until they stop on some generic action movie. It’s the kind of thing Lambert would stare at and watch for hours on end, just to keep his mind busy while he did something else, but Geralt doesn’t mind. Jaskier melts against him, almost falling asleep as the fire nearby crackles and spits.

Sleep somehow manages to slink in from the corners of the room, slowly lapping over both of them. Geralt’s breaths turn deep and long as he can feel his eyelids beginning to fall closed. Even Jaskier’s fingers threading through his hair start to slow.

Jaskier’s phone buzzes nearby and it’s all shaken away. Jaskier just about manages to whine into Geralt’s shoulder, pulling away just enough to grab his phone and blink at the bright screen. Geralt keeps his eyes on the TV, feeling them grow heavier with every moment that passes.

But it all blinks away the moment he feels Jaskier tense underneath him. He peers up at the man, watching him stare at his phone for a second before he pats Geralt’s thigh. “I’m sorry, darling, but I have to take this,” he murmurs through one breath, quickly untangling himself from Geralt and fleeing into the hallway.

Geralt watches the portal of the door. Jaskier’s words are muffled, fighting through the hum of the TV in the background. And he could turn it down and listen in, but he doesn’t think Jaskier wants to be heard considering how quickly he left the room. So Geralt tries to survive the cold space left behind after Jaskier, shuffling up on the couch and stretching out his neck. Sleepless nights with Ciri and with the years slowly trudging by, his body won’t be able to cope with it peacefully for much longer.

By the time Jaskier pads back into the living room, he doesn’t know how much time has passed. Jaskier’s phone is palmed into his hand, turning it around in a way he usually does when he’s been given something to think about, or when he can feel anxiety creeping up on him. Geralt perks his head up almost instantly. "Everything alright?” he murmurs, mindful of the quiet that has settled over the room.

He stretches out a hand, letting Jaskier’s find his and fall back down on to the couch, almost as if he never left. Jaskier’s phone drops to the side, almost out of sight as it battles against falling in between the side of the couch and the cushion. Jaskier bites at his lip. A small twitch curls the corner of his mouth, something that looks eerily like a smile. Geralt blinks.

The other man takes a measured breath. The words that tumble out of him do just that; falling out from his lips in one breath. “That was the producer,” he breathes, “and she likes the demos I sent her.”

Geralt watches a broad grin spread over Jaskier’s face; one that rounds his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. He can’t help but match it. “So, what does this mean? For you?”

“She’s getting her team together tomorrow,” he says, threading an arm around Geralt’s shoulder, gathering him close. The smile on his lips doesn’t budge, even when he dips down to steal a kiss from Geralt’s lips. He only pulls away a fraction, his smile almost dazzling as Geralt takes in the man in front of him. He can see it; the glint in his eyes getting stronger and almost blinding. Jaskier reaches up, brushing the back of his fingers along Geralt’s cheek. “They’ll talk about it then, but...this could be it.”

Geralt leans up, catching another kiss from the other man. Jaskier laughs breathlessly against his lips, gathering Geralt close and rolling them both along the length of the couch. Jaskier radiates happiness and it’s infectious, bleeding into both of them as Jaskier’s arms slowly curl around his shoulders and keep him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait for this chapter! I wrote quite a lot lately and just burned myself out (still clambering out of it, to be honest). There is an ending in sight for this fic so we'll be wrapping up proceedings shortly! 
> 
> Even though I want to spend as long as possible with my boys 🥰😭


	39. Chapter 39

Gods alive, he hates letting go of Jaskier in the mornings. When the man is a sure and warm weight on top of him, with an arm and leg haphazardly tossed over him and keeping him pinned, and his own arms are coiled around his shoulders making sure that Jaskier can’t move anywhere anytime soon, he hates the first watery streaks of light that fight their way into the room.

The rest of the house is awake, as is the norm. Shani wakes first for work, quietly padding out in the hallway outside and clicking the front door shut behind her. Essi and Pris are...less considerate. Muffled music from the kitchen pries through the floorboards; but Geralt is so used to it at this stage, he can ignore it if he needs to.

Jaskier wakes first. And that isn’t what usually happens. It’s Geralt who usually wakes first, and then he’ll wait, in between dozing and wakefulness, while watching Jaskier continue to sleep for almost another hour.

But even as he clambers awake, he can feel Jaskier slipping away from him. Jaskier presses a kiss to his forehead, brows knitted in a small frown as the warmth of the other man’s body slips away from him. “I have a meeting,” he whispers, almost careful not to disturb the peace of the room.

Geralt hums as familiar fingers thread through his hair, combing it back from his face. Jaskier dusts another light kiss to his forehead before he slips away. When cold starts to nip at Geralt’s side, and he can feel himself climbing awake, he peers over the sheets and comforters gathered to his chin, and watches Jaskier pad quietly around his room. A simple moss green tee, one of his nicer pairs of jeans. A casual meeting that will last maybe half an hour. But between the travelling to and back, Geralt burrows into Jaskier’s portion of their bed and lounges in the last tendrils of heat and scent still there.

Jaskier leaves with one last lingering kiss pecked on to Geralt’s cheek, and the second the door clicks behind him, it takes everything in Geralt not to try and wrangle himself out of bed and chase after him. Even if he were the one to drive him to the interview, then they wouldn’t be apart for so long.

Still, he makes do until he can have Jaskier back again. He grabs at the man’s pillow, hauling it over to him and curling around it, before slipping back to sleep.

* * *

Just as he steps into the kitchen, the murmurs quieten. Two pairs of eyes fall on to him the second he appears, wrangling his hair back into something vaguely resembling a ponytail and rubbing the last of sleep from his eye. He managed to have another thirty minutes of fitful sleep before eventually deciding to roll out of bed.

Geralt arches an eyebrow at the sight of both Pris and Essi gathered around the dining table, remnants of their own breakfast scattered among them alongside their laptops and notebooks. “What’re you two talking about?”

Pris slams her laptop shut, eyes slightly widened. “Nothing.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, but hums. Two pairs of eyes keep watch over him as he pads over to the fridge, pulling out some chopped fruit Jaskier likes to leave him in the morning. He doesn’t even have to check with the other man if he’ll do it or not, because it’s usually there. He picks at his slices of strawberries and bananas, thinking about just wandering back upstairs and lounging in Jaskier’s bed until the man can come home and join him.

But before he can start striding back for the hallway door, Essi clears her throat. “Are you, uh,” she stammers, tasting the words on her mouth, “have you and Jask decided on a date for the wedding or anything?”

And he almost chokes on his fruit. It seems to be enough of an answer for the two women watching him. Essi nods. “Thought so,” she runs her fingers through her straw-coloured hair, taming it back from her face.

Geralt’s brow knits together. “Why?” he asks slowly, because they usually leave Jaskier and him to their own business, and the only reason Essi and/or Pris would ever ask about something like that would be if they wanted to know for a thing they’re planning. _Oh Gods—_ “You’re not planning an engagement party are you?” Because he would rather die than have all that sort of attention on him—

Pris shakes her head. “No, no, we’re really not,” she huffs through a short laugh. Sharing a quick look with Essi, she sets her arms on to her laptop. “Just...we’re going to wait for Jaskier to get home before we explain everything, so, just,” she shoos her hands at him, and Geralt slinks out of the kitchen with his fruit with not another word. Pris’ words linger in his mind, following him upstairs and into Jaskier’s room as he steps back inside, aiming to slink straight back into bed and wait for Jaskier to return. By the time he sets his foot back into the man’s room, his ears twitch at the sound of his phone buzzing among the sea of sheets scattered on the bed.

It takes him a few seconds to try and unearth it, but he manages to connect Yennefer’s video call before it can drop. Yennefer and Ciri fill the screen; Yenn holding Ciri propped against her shoulder, bouncing her lightly as she tries to get the baby’s attention. Geralt can feel a smile already starting to curl along his lip. “Come on, princess,” Yennefer lilts, her voice higher than usual. Ciri blinks at her before she burrows her head against Yenn’s shoulder, idly gnawing at her own fist. “Show Papa what you just did.”

Geralt’s brows knit together and his smile skews. Ciri has amassed many new quirks over the months, not all of them great. Lambert might have been thankful that the teething screams seemed to have stopped, but Ciri is an insistent talker these days, babbling and squawking at just about anything.

Yennefer tries again. “Darling girl, you literally _just_ said it, come on,” she lilts, bouncing Ciri again. It lures a bright smile out of the girl, giggles buried against Yennefer’s shoulder. But her eyes manage to catch Yenn’s phone screen, and recognition blinks over her face. Yennefer coos. “Yeah! Who’s that, huh? Is that...?”

Ciri blinks at the screen, reaching out with a spit-stained hand trying to grab at the phone. She babbles, as she’s wont of doing these days. But through it all, and with Yennefer’s gentle encouraging prods, something tumbles out of tiny lips that has Geralt pausing.

Ciri beams at the phone’s screen, and through all the babbling, he can hear it – _dada_.

It’s almost lost through the rest of the noise. Ciri has seemingly been on the cusp of words for the past few weeks, but it could be the desperation from the two of them; who will she say first? And Yennefer beams at the baby coddled against her, peppering Ciri’s round and reddened cheeks with kisses that have her squealing in laughter.

Geralt’s chest tightens. The back of his eyes stings as he watches the scene in front of him. “Good job, Ciri,” he says, words gentle and light and almost lost to Ciri’s giggling. At the sound of his voice, she blinks at the screen again. She’s still not quite used to technology, but seeing her Dad’s face and hearing his voice come through Yenn’s phone seems to be enough.

Yennefer meets his eyes through the phone, and her expression softens. Even though most of his emotion won’t show on his face, she’s known him long enough to know how to read what she can from him. “She was playing around with that dog plushie you got her,” she says, bouncing Ciri lightly in her arms as she starts to squirm.

Geralt huffs a short laugh. If it’s Ciri thinking that he’s a toy dog, or that she just remembered who gave her the toy in the first place, he really doesn’t care. All he wants is to hold her for himself and let Lambert know that his bet is lost. _Thank the gods._

Yennefer dusts another kiss on to the girl’s head. “Well,” she sighs, “we _were_ going to head for an early afternoon nap. Just thought I’d let you know that she’s managed a word. I know you wanted to be around for it.”

They’re both going to miss things, living the way that they are. And it was a slow realisation they both had as Ciri began to grapple with crawling and trying to get her feet underneath her as she tries to grapple on to the edges of the couch. Someone was going to hear her first word, while the other would get her first steps. Though, he supposes, he still has a good enough relationship with Ciri’s mum to be able to still see these things, even if they’re through a phone screen.

Geralt nods. “I’d be lying if I wasn’t still in bed, too,” he says through a short laugh, watching Yenn do everything in her power not to roll her eyes. But from the sight of her in loose and worn clothes, he can only guess that it’s one of her very rare days off, and that she has managed to pry herself away from her computer and work for long enough. Geralt hums. “You should get some sleep too. You look like shit.”

Yennefer barks a laugh. “Thanks,” she says thinly, but a smile curls along her lip all the same. The bluntness between the two of them was always there. Good to know it hasn’t withered away. Ciri’s mouth stretches around a yawn as she buries her face into Yenn’s shoulder, slowly slipping back to sleep. Geralt is brought through Yenn’s apartment as she carries the baby towards her room, slowly setting her down into her crib, still kept to the side of Yenn’s bed just in case Ciri needs her during the night. She doesn’t have the benefit of other people being around. In Geralt’s house, there’s an abundance of uncles in rooms next door, and Jaskier always willing to wake up to see to Ciri if Geralt is particularly tired. The second Ciri is set against her bed, her eyelids flutter closed and she drifts off to sleep.

Geralt’s heart pangs within his chest. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how cute or small she is. He used to spend hours hovering nearby, just watching, as if something would come along and shatter her.

Yennefer sighs the moment she’s sure Ciri won’t wake up again when she tries to step away. “How have you been?” she asks, keeping her voice low and nothing more than a murmur. She walks out of her room, gently pulling the door behind her, but leaves it slightly ajar.

Geralt hums. “Alright,” he replies. “Vesemir is going for another treatment tomorrow so I’m going with him.”

The corners of Yenn’s mouth dip down. “How is he getting on? Is treatment helping at all?”

Geralt sighs. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he can see Vesemir starting to bow into himself slightly. The man who towered over all of them as children now looks so small; a passing breeze could come along and barrel him to the ground. But he’s still stubborn, insisting on going to treatments by himself. And _that’s_ the Vesemir that Geralt knows; the kind of man he desperately wants Vesemir to cling on to and keep around. Something must show on his face. Yennefer clicks her tongue. “I’m sure when all of the chemo is done, he’ll feel better. He’s a stubborn old fool.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. “Yeah,” he murmurs. His ears twitch at the sound of the front door shutting downstairs, and his stomach twists. Jaskier is hardly home already...

Yennefer hums. “I’ll leave you to it then,” she offers him a small smile. “You’re still good to take Ciri for the weekend?”

Geralt nods. And they’ll work on expanding her words. He wants to hear her call him dad in person, in the way that she likes to grapple on to his shirt or any stray strand of his hair. He’ll show Vesemir, because it might just be the thing to keep his head above water and shake the last bit of shadow from his eyes.

Yennefer hangs up the moment Jaskier shuffles back into his room, ruffled by the presumably sharp winter winds outside. His cheeks are reddened and his hair rumpled from his beanie. Wrangling his scarf and jacket from him, Jaskier sighs as he looks at Geralt stretched out on the bed. “Have you even moved since I left?” he balks, setting a hand on to his hips. “Honestly, Geralt, I think you need to start running again or something, your old joints are going to lock up at this rate.”

A light chuckle rumbles up Geralt’s throat. “Will you be joining me on these runs?” he asks, reaching out for Jaskier when he ventures closer to the foot of the bed. Jaskier clambers on to it, almost instantly falling into Geralt’s side.

He sighs heavily, sinking against Geralt when his arms wrap around him. “Absolutely not,” he hums, almost slipping back to sleep. “You’re going to be my trophy husband when I’m rich and famous.” Geralt buries his smile into the crown of Jaskier’s head, nosing through the soft locks of hair and taking in lungfuls of scent.

He isn’t sure how much time slips by, if it’s a few minutes or another hour, but he’s content to just let it all drift by. With Jaskier gathered close to him, he can feel sleep trying to pull him back. And it’s so different to how it was before – when he couldn’t muster the energy to even wake up after some nights, swallowed in sheets and blearily blinking at his window, watching the sun outside slowly trudge by. This is warm and curls around his heart and squeezes his chest. This is the kind of sleep he can wake from, knowing that there’s someone curled around him, or just an arm’s reach away. Jaskier has burrowed himself into the core of Geralt’s chest, unmoving and unwilling to budge.

He eventually taps the man’s back. “Pris said she wanted to talk to you when you got home,” he rumbles, mindful of the quiet that laps over them.

Jaskier hums, burying his sigh into Geralt’s neck. “She mentioned something last night,” he nods, doing his best to slip away and roll back out of bed. His clothes are rumpled, but he doesn’t seem to care much at all. With his business with downtown done for the day, Jaskier is free to lounge at home with everyone else. And Geralt’s chest warms at the thought of it.

When he eventually joins the other man in rolling out of bed, they pad downstairs. Geralt is still sleep-soft and not entirely awake, but Jaskier reaches behind, catching his hand when Geralt drifts too close to him. It lures a small smile out of him, one that stays on his lips just as they step into the kitchen. Essi and Pris are still at the table, with a collection of papers around them. Shani has joined them, sipping freshly brewed tea.

Jaskier drifts towards the kettle, only parting with Geralt’s hand for a moment while he pours them their own drinks. “So,” he lulls after a while, when all three of the women have all spent a moment too long staring at both of them. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

The silence that follows the question is thick and heavy. Geralt watches Essi bristle slightly, looking to her laptop for a moment.

When someone does speak, it’s Shani who goes first. “Tomek and I are going to move in together soon,” she says, fidgeting with her mug. The faintest bloom of colour warms her cheeks as she looks to Jaskier. “You’ve been amazing for letting me stay here. I love this house, and all of you in it. But we think it’s time to start living together, because I think things are getting pretty serious.”

Jaskier blinks, but he nods. “Yeah, I mean, sure. It’s up to you and Tomek,” he says, handing Geralt his drink. When he looks back at Shani, his brows knit together. “Have you been looking at places yet? Do you need any help moving, or—?”

Shani shakes her head, her red hair dusting her shoulders. “No, gods no, I couldn’t ask you for that. We, uh, we’ve put a deposit down for an apartment around Oxenfurt. The Academy wants me to lecture there for a season.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows lift. “That’s amazing,” he says. His eyes drift to the other two, pointedly keeping their lips sealed tightly shut. They look like they’re about to flee the room at the slightest sharp noise. And Geralt watches them intently, knowing that something lingers on the tips of their tongues.

Essi breaks first. “Before you say anything,” she rushes, pointing a pen at Jaskier, “let me finish speaking.”

Jaskier blinks at her, but nods. “Go ahead.”

Essi takes a measured breath. “Well, we – Pris and I – we knew that Shani was going to be moving in with Tomek, and we knew that you and Geralt were probably going to be looking for a new place to live, when you both start thinking about getting married, and, I don’t know, we just assumed that—”

Pris rolls her eyes. “We’re moving out too,” she says simply, ignoring Essi’s open mouth, the other woman still trying to weave her words together. But it seems Pris has said all that they need to.

Jaskier blinks, regarding both of them for a second. The mug of tea nestled in his hands is long forgotten about. “Have, have you guys seen somewhere...?”

Pris shakes her head. “We’re looking,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the forest of paper and computers covering the table. “But, listen, this isn’t about you being a bad person, because I know what you’re brain is like Jaskier Pankratz and I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

And Geralt knows it too. Looking at the other man, seeing his expression slacken slightly at the assurance that all three of his friends leaving the house, he knows that the shadows stalking the darker corners of Jaskier’s brain whisper all sorts of things to him during the quieter moments of the day. And he needs more assurance than most, especially with certain things.

Pris continues. “Just, we’ve lived here for a while, and you guys need your own space. You’re becoming a proper family, and you need a space for that. Jask, you already _own_ this house. Why would you move anywhere else?”

Geralt drifts a bit closer to the other man; not that he needs it. He seems fine to stand on his own for the time being. But Geralt plucks the mug out of Jaskier’s hands, because gods only know he could fidget with it so much that he might drop it.

Jaskier swallows, still blinking at everything he’s taking in. “Yeah, I guess,” he rasps, clearing his throat, “but, this is your house too. This is as much as your home as it is mine. I, I don’t want it to seem like I’m kicking you all out or anything.”

“You’re not,” Geralt rumbles, pressing himself against Jaskier’s side, letting his hand drift to the man’s lower back. His hand slips underneath the hem of his shirt, palming along the small of his back. His skin is warm and the second Geralt’s skin brushes his, the worst of the tension locking his back stiff seems to slacken. Jaskier turns his head, listening to what Geralt lilts against his ear. “They know that, don’t they? You gave them a wonderful home for, what? Three, four years? And you’re still all friends, aren’t you? I mean, they’re practically Ciri’s aunties. I don’t think we could be able to get rid of them.”

Shani snorts a sharp laugh into her mug, but no one says anything. Geralt presses on. “This is a gift back to you, darling,” he murmurs, soothing Jaskier’s back and luring the last few tendrils of anxiety out of him.

Jaskier leans into his touch, his breathing slowly beginning to leaven out again. The three others in the room regard him for a moment. “You’ve done so much for us, Julek,” Pris says, albeit a bit softer this time. Pris, alongside the others, hold their own against all of Jaskier’s snips and humours, and can give back just as easily as they can take. There have only been a handful of times Geralt has ever seen someone like Pris get dangerously close to being emotional and, gods forbid, sincere. Her eyes soften, almost the same bright blue as Jaskier’s. “Just, like Geralt said, let us give something back to you. Please?”

If he spots Jaskier’s eyes beading wet, and the other man blinking a lot more than usual, he doesn’t point it out. Jaskier draws in a sure breath as steadily as he can. “Sure,” he rasps, a small smile curling along his lips. The silence within the room wanes slightly, with Jaskier eventually being lured over to the table and gathered into a hug between all three of them.

Geralt tries not to notice how they all cling on to each other, as if this were the last time they’re going to see each other again. And he can understand – he’s been within Jaskier’s home for over a year, and the thought of never being somewhere so warm and calm and inviting again sends shockwaves through him. Jaskier’s house could very well be his own. A place he was able to flee too when the outside world became too much. Somewhere he could find Jaskier and burrow into his side and not leave until the worst of whatever shadows and darkness had to say finally wisped away.

When the three women eventually let go of Jaskier, Shani reaches up, brushing his cheek with the back of her knuckles and reaching up to fix his hair, still slightly rumpled from the wind outside and from lying down with Geralt. His eyes are reddened slightly, but Jaskier being himself, he pulls any tears brimming his eyes back in and plasters a smile over his face.

* * *

The rest of the day ebbs by like nothing happened, but something lingered in the background. Even when the papers and computers were cleared away and meals drift by, Geralt keeps an eye on the other man. A silence hangs around the house about the women moving out, but Geralt can sense how the thought prowls around and around in Jaskier’s mind, even when his eyes glint with hearth-light and wine when they all gather in the living room for the evening.

It’s only when Geralt has bundled him back upstairs to their room does he try and prod at it.

“I can hear you thinking.” Even though his voice is nothing more than a quiet rumble, coming out of the core of his chest, it shatters through the quiet more severally than he would like. Jaskier, flushed to his side and with his head mostly lost into the hollow of Geralt’s neck, sets his hand on to the man’s chest.

When he does speak, it’s quiet and almost a murmur. “It’s such a big house, just for the two of us,” Jaskier mumbles. His fingers dust against Geralt’s bare chest, quietly mapping out ever stretch of skin he can find. Geralt watches him chart, with the other man keeping his eyes firmly on his hand and fingertips and Geralt’s chest just so he doesn’t have to look up and meet Geralt’s eyes. Sometimes conversations can be had to the darkness of the room, letting their words sit among the quiet lapsing around them. Eyes can be too much at times.

Geralt hums, but keeps his words to himself for the moment. Luring things out of Jaskier can be hard, when his mind is wholly occupied with something else. Jaskier sighs, pressing into Geralt even more, trying to get more of the man’s warmth to bloom into his skin and muscles and bones. “What do you think?” he mumbles, the words almost entirely lost to Geralt’s skin.

Geralt keeps his eyes to the ceiling, mapping out the speckles in the plaster and the small crack starting to jut out from one corner that he’ll probably have to fix at some point. He lets his words linger on his tongue for a moment, tasting them before he speaks. “I think that this is your home,” he murmurs, letting the back of his knuckles dust the ridge of Jaskier’s back, feeling warmth bloom from his skin. “This is _your_ home, that you made your own. And, yeah, I guess it’s a bit big just for the two of us. But, if you did want us to stay here, one of the rooms would be ours. Another would be Ciri’s, on the days and nights she stays with us.”

Geralt looks down at the body moulded to his side. Jaskier’s hand has stilled over him. He’s listening intently to every word that spills out of Geralt’s lips. And all of his thoughts are quietly mulling around in his mind, almost seeping out and breaking the quiet lapsing over the room.

Geralt turns his head just enough to brush his lips over Jaskier’s forehead. His hair smells like fresh seawater, freshly showered and soft. “You can make one of the other rooms into a studio, or an office, whatever you need,” Geralt rumbles, reaching up to card his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. The man almost shivers with the touch and slumps into Geralt’s side. The arm slung over his chest tightens, gathering him close. “You’re happy here, I know you are. And I like it here too. It’s close to everywhere we need to be. You said it yourself before; you didn’t want to move to places like Cintra because it’s too busy. Imagine staying this far away from the music scene; the lights and the noise, in a neighbourhood that is so quiet and peaceful no one would ever think to look for you here.”

Jaskier hums. He peers up, eyes seeking Geralt’s. “If we stayed,” he murmurs, perching his chin on to Geralt’s chest, “how would you feel about that? With work? You’d have to commute every day.”

Geralt offers him a small smile. “I commute to work anyway, Jask.”

“I know,” he huffs slightly, “but, driving from Redania to Kaedwen is different from driving down a few streets.”

Geralt hums. “If it’s any consolation,” he says, “I don’t actually need to spend a lot of time at the garage itself. I haven’t done any manual work since Yenn and I broke up. I don’t think I could get back into it. I’m better at organising the books and stock. I could do that here, in an office of my own, and be here with you.”

Jaskier still doesn’t look quite convinced, even though he nods and hums and buries his face back into the hollow of Geralt’s neck. Sleep won’t come to take them for a while, he expects. It keeps to the corners of the room, not intent on bothering either of them just yet. Not when Jaskier’s mind is still as loud as it is, and he’s mulling over things. All Geralt can do is try and weather it with him, pressing gentle kisses to his nest of hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to an ending 👀
> 
> A few more things just have to be wrapped up! I have other AUs I want to work on and post, mainly because I'm awful at starting multiple projects and then never keeping to any of them, and many will end up DNFed. So I promised that this time I would actually finish something before I started something else 😂 Exciting stuff to come in the form of a College!AU and Pirate!AU stuff 👀


	40. Chapter 40

Eskel and Lambert watch him set each bag into the hallway, with everything he could ever want to bring stuffed neatly inside and ready to be brought down to his car. Even though his brothers keep to themselves, quietly poking their heads into Geralt’s room every so often, just to check if he needs help with anything, Geralt does most of it himself.

He strips his closet free of all of his clothes, neatly folding and setting them into suitcases and boxes and sliding them out into the hall to join the others. He leaves what he can – his desk, because he knows Eskel has had his eye on it for a while, and any furniture he can’t bring with him. Gods only know what they’ll do with his room, but it’s not his anymore – despite Eskel insistently telling him that if he ever wants it back, it’s his, and he doesn’t even have to ask.

When the last of his stuff is strung into the hallway, Geralt glances around the room. It wasn’t the biggest, but it’s one he’s lived in for most of his life. It’s the most familiar place to him; walls and furniture that saw him grow up and share his heart with someone else, only to have it shattered and pieced back together again.

Geralt blinks. Days and nights were lost in here; when the hours seemed to trudge by while he buried himself under sheets and the only light he ever saw was that of his phone or laptop. And then Jaskier stayed here, and Ciri. The thought of it all stings the back of his eye, but he thins his lips. It’s change. It’s a _good_ change. He gets to live his life solely with Jaskier now; living in Redania in a house for themselves, with Ciri sharing that space too.

When he steps out into the hallway, Lambert clears his throat. The man rubs at the back of his neck, jacket and shoes already pulled on for the trek up and down to Geralt’s car. “Do you, uh,” he rasps, clearing his throat, “do you want any help with that, or...? I don’t want it to seem like we’re kicking you out or anything, but uh, I know you like doing things for yourself...”

Geralt spots Eskel over the man’s shoulder, keeping to the entrance of the hallway and watching their youngest brother flounder with his words. He’s never been great with them; preferring to lash out at people first, before they can get any closer. And all Geralt can see now is the grubby-faced, wild-haired baby brother, with a gap in his teeth and scraped knees, who insisted on following Geralt and Eskel _everywhere_ , no matter what Vesemir had to say about it.

Geralt hums. “Yeah,” he replies, fidgeting with some of the boxes. “That’d be great, thanks.”

It’s an almost solemn march up and down their building’s stairs. Most of the comments thrown around are about the elevator, because _of course_ it would be broken on moving day. Eskel keeps the chatter going, as best as he’s able, but when the boxes and suitcases start to thin in the hallway and stack up in the back of Geralt’s car, and their trips up and down the stairs become less frequent, Eskel starts to stammer and fidget.

By the time they’re done, it’s taken longer than it should have. All of them could have had this done within thirty minutes, but almost an hour later, Eskel and Lambert start dragging their feet as they get back to Geralt’s car with the last of his boxes.

When he turns around, and registers the solemn and forlorn looks on their faces, Geralt snorts a sharp laugh. “Gods be good,” he says, letting his keys sit in his pocket for just a bit longer, “I’m not _dying_.”

Lambert scuffs the toe of his shoe against the pavement. It’s cold, with winter rolling in and the days starting to get shorter and the nights longer. Kaedwen winters are something he won’t miss. Having snow stacked on the pavements and waiting for the ploughs to come and start the city again is something that he’ll gladly leave behind.

Eskel sighs. “We know,” he murmurs, folding his arms over his chest, to stave off the cold and to stop his fidgeting. “Just...we won’t get to see your ugly face every day.”

Lambert manages a small chuckle. “Thank the gods.”

Geralt’s eyes threaten to roll, but his chest tightens. “You’ll see me at work,” he murmurs, stepping forward and gathering his brothers into a firm hug. Familiar strong arms coil around him, keeping him firmly in the huddle. “And you know that the house is only a short drive away. You’re invited over anytime.”

He wills his arms to loosen. And he can only imagine that the others are struggling too, with letting go and knowing that there will be a free space within the apartment they’ve shared since they were pups. Geralt’s arms tighten, just a fraction, before he manages to slip away.

* * *

It’s strange, watching Jaskier’s house be stripped down. Most of the clutter decorating the halls and living room belongs to the women; books and trinkets gathered from holidays in other boroughs, the bathroom is almost entirely emptied of shampoos and conditioners and lotions. There is so much space left within the house, it’s odd to think that it’s even Jaskier’s home at all.

Shani is the first to leave. She brought up the moving date over a dinner one evening a few weeks ago, when Geralt was over to stay. A landlord finally approved them to move in, after weeks of looking and being rejected. Her last night in the house is an excuse for a party; a quiet one, with people friends that they all share, and Geralt has slowly gotten to know. He recognises most of the people milling throughout the house, mostly kept to the kitchen and living room, music lulling overhead and the air thickly scented with perfume and alcohol.

Geralt keeps to the edge of it all. Even when Shani draws Jaskier close, both of them crowing out lyrics to whatever song is playing from the speakers overhead, Geralt is content to just watch from the portal of the living room’s door, still mostly keeping himself to the hallway for a quick getaway if things get too much.

Jaskier keeps an eye on him, though. Even when Shani and Pris and Essi gather in the middle of the living room, half-singing and dancing together with the others, Jaskier’s eyes find him through the crowds and he flashes him a small smile.

_Alright?_

Geralt lifts his chin. **Alright**.

And Jaskier drifts towards him, after a while, hips swaying slightly as a few bottles of beer have lulled his senses. Two familiar arms reach for him, slowly curling around his shoulders and neck and drawing him flush to Jaskier’s front. Geralt chuckles lowly, stepping them out into the hallway and away from any wandering eyes. “I’m not dancing with you,” he rumbles, letting his arms wind around Jaskier’s waist.

The other man pouts, brows knitted and lip pushed forward. “You _never_ dance with me,” he huffs. Fingers card through the hair at the back of Geralt’s head, slowly threading freshly-washed locks through Jaskier’s touch. He tilts his head. “Will you dance with me at our wedding?” Jaskier lulls, swaying them slightly to the hum of the music in the living room.

Geralt gathers him close. He has just enough height on the other man to bury his smirk into Jaskier’s hair, smelling his usual scent lilted with beer and cologne. “Sure,” he replies lightly, because he can say these things to a slightly drunk Jaskier and he’ll never remember and hold Geralt to his word.

Jaskier hums, tightening his hold on Geralt and hugging him close. The hallway is much quieter than the rest of the house, even with noise spilling out into it. But all of Jaskier’s friends keep themselves to the living room and kitchen, with only a few at a time popping out to ask Geralt where drinks and snacks are, or if they can smoke outside. And Geralt stays where he is, gathered tightly in Jaskier’s arms and swaying to a song he can’t remember the name of.

* * *

Each of the women breaks off like fragments; each of them slipping away almost overnight and when Jaskier and him wake up in the morning, and they pad downstairs, it’s quiet. In a house that used to be so full of noise, a gentle hum of it in the background no matter what they did, Jaskier finds himself humming more, or keeping his phone playing music, just to have something around to break the silence.

Essi and Pris leave a few days after their lease is signed, taking with them the last few things that fill out the house. Without so many things lining the shelves and somehow balanced on top of other things, Geralt stands in the practically empty living room wondering how in the name of all of the gods are they going to fill it out. Jaskier collects things, like a magpie carrying anything he finds interesting home; that’s their only hope.

Maybe Ciri will fill things out. When she’s growing up and going from interest to interest, adding things to her room to make it hers and hers alone, doing whatever she likes to it because she can. In all the ways Vesemir was a father to him, Geralt will be an even better one to Ciri – or at least try to, because he’s very much stumbling through the dark as it is, and he could never try and replicate or top anything Vesemir did for him or their family.

He blinks as familiar arms circle his waist, pulling him back flush against a solid and warm chest. Jaskier perches his chin on Geralt’s shoulder, humming as he regards the sparse living room. “I forgot how big this place actually is,” he murmurs, pressing himself completely against Geralt’s back and gathering him close. “It never seemed that way with the four of us living here, but now they’re gone...”

Geralt hums. He catches Jaskier’s hand, resting comfortably on his stomach and just holding him close. “We’ll always be here,” he lilts, looking around at everything. “And when Ciri gets older, I’m sure she’ll hoard plenty of stuff here too.”

Jaskier snorts. “I’m looking forward to teenage years,” he lulls, turning to press a chaste kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “Mess _everywhere_. You, pulling your hair out because she’ll be giving you attitude.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What about you?”

“ _I’m_ the nice step-dad who always takes her side, of course.” A smile stretches along Jaskier’s lips, rounding his cheeks and squinting his eyes. He dissolves into giggles when Geralt turns in his arms, reaching out to catch him by the waist, trying his best to escape to the stairs, but Geralt is quick and nimble when he wants to be, and the arms that trap his waist are strong and firm.

He has no problems whatsoever being dragged back to Geralt’s chest, having the man smother wet kisses along his cheek and jaw and down the length of his neck. If anything, he lets his head roll so Geralt can go further. His laughs thin at the first light scratch of Geralt’s teeth along the column of his neck, at a certain spot near the join of his shoulder that has lithe moans spilling from his lips.

Geralt’s kisses pause as the first lilting sounds slip out of Jaskier. They continue only when Jaskier reaches blindly behind him, swatting at Geralt’s thigh to _keep going_ —

“Good thing about an empty house,” Jaskier sighs, tilting his head even more when Geralt moves the collar of his shirt, “is loud sex. I’m going to make sure that we cover every surface in this place we can think of, okay?”

A laugh muffles against Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier pulls at his hands, curling one into Geralt’s and dragging Geralt to the nearest flat surface he can spot. Geralt’s eyes threaten to roll when Jaskier pulls him down on to the couch, Jaskier stretching out along the length of it and perching Geralt above him. “You know,” Geralt rumbles, ignoring how Jaskier’s nimble fingers reach for the hem of his shirt and start pulling at it, “we’re going to get too old for couch-sex soon.”

Jaskier balks at him. “ _You’re_ going to get too old for couch-sex,” he lilts, pulling and tugging Geralt’s tee over his head and letting it drop somewhere beyond the reach of the couch. “I’m going to stay as youthful as I’ve always been.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh, leaning down to lure a long and languid kiss out of Jaskier. He keeps their lips close when they part. “And how are you going to pay for all of that botox and plastic surgery, hmm?”

Jaskier swats at him. “You’re terrible,” he mutters, though the words thin when Jaskier sets his hands on to him. “You’re awful and I don’t know why I put up with you. You say such horrid things to me.”

Whatever else wants to spill out of Jaskier’s lips melt away when Geralt mouths along his neck, trailing down to his throat. Jaskier’s head tilts back, letting Geralt do whatever he likes. His fingers fidget with the belt of Geralt’s jeans, fumbling with the buckle until Geralt huffs a laugh against his neck and undo his belt himself.

They’re more rushed than usual. Jaskier likes taking his time, as does Geralt. Clothes peeled away item by item until they can set their hands on each other, slowly luring out moans and shudders with every touch. This isn’t it. This is something more frantic, and Jaskier tugs haphazardly on whatever he can catch, desperate to have the other man against him.

Geralt’s fingers are more sure in themselves, catching the hem of Jaskier’s shirt and pulling it up and over his head, letting it drop forgotten past the edge of the couch. Jeans and socks and underwear, until a whine slips out of Jaskier’s throat at the familiar and firm press of Geralt against him. His skin is warm and he palms his hands over the man’s chest, his lips twitching into a faint smile at the quick trembling of Geralt’s heart inside of his chest. He leans up, catching Geralt’s lips in a long and languid kiss; one that has him shivering and his toes curling.

With the other man poised above him, it’s a familiar and firm weight, and Jaskier doesn’t want him to leave. The idea of him wandering too far away almost lures a whine out of his throat and turns his blood cold. Geralt sets their foreheads together, pausing for a moment and letting their breaths mingle between them. Jaskier reaches up, framing the man’s face in his hands, letting his thumbs brush over the arches of his cheekbones.

A small smile curls along the length of Geralt’s lips. He presses his forehead into Jaskier’s, letting their noses brush and lips wander close, just shy of kissing again. It’s nice, moments like these. And he’ll have as many as he can with Geralt, now that the house is theirs. A brilliant smile stretches over his lips, and a breathless laugh slips out of him.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What?” he murmurs, the words washing over Jaskier’s face.

 _Gods, this is too much_. His heart stutters in his chest and his stomach is flipping over itself. He leans up, capturing a chaste, yet lingering, kiss from Geralt’s lips. There’s a slight chill in the air, prickling any skin that isn’t touching Geralt’s. The other man doesn’t seem that eager to let him go, chasing his lips even when Jaskier pulls away. “Nothing,” he murmurs, hooking his ankles against the small of Geralt’s back, pulling him closer until their hips roll against each other’s, luring a small gasping moan out of them both.

* * *

In the few days they have to each other before Geralt has to take Ciri for the weekend, Jaskier finds himself bent over and perched on _everything_ that’s relatively flat and willing to support his weight. It’s a lot. It reminds him of the first time he had Geralt to himself, and how it stoked a fire in him that quickly turned wild and all-consuming.

He supposes Geralt has a point. Maybe they’re both a bit old for couch-sex; though he tries not to let the other man know how it earned Jaskier a crick in his neck for a few days after. But knowing that this space is _theirs_ , this is their home now, it’s set off a fire in him that he’s having a hard time trying to quell.

He had just enough wherewithal to reach over and switch the burners off, moving a pan of bacon to the side as he’s perched on the kitchen counter, legs already spreading around Geralt’s waist as the man gathers him close. It’s infectious – warm skin and sure fingers and hands, knowing where to touch to lure the right kinds of sounds out of him. And he couldn’t stop kissing Geralt if he tried. There’s no point in wearing many clothes around the house most mornings. When they do eventually amble downstairs, sleep-soft and barely awake, hands wander and kisses dust along their shoulders and necks and cheeks.

Jaskier lets his head loll back, sighing at the familiar scratch of Geralt’s morning stubble along his throat.

They’ll have to collect Ciri from Yenn’s place later. Something their future-selves can deal with. Now, he isn’t sure what time it is. It’s probably midday, if the strangely bright sunlight streaking into the kitchen is anything to go by.

Jaskier’s hands settle on Geralt’s shoulders. “Listen,” he breathes, “if you want breakfast, you’re going to have to let go of me—” Whatever else he has to say is lost to a moan. Geralt knows the spots that will have Jaskier’s tongue stilling and whines and moans lured out of him. The man’s teeth scrape along the apple of his throat, a shiver of pleasure trembling through him.

A soft laugh brushes along his skin. Firm, familiar arms curl around his waist, gathering him close. Geralt hums. “I finally have you all to myself,” he rumbles, “and you’re trying to push me away.”

Jaskier lightly swats at his side. “I’m trying to keep you fed, you brute.”

Gods forbid if anyone tries to visit. Not that either of them have many callers coming to the house. Geralt’s brothers helped move some newer furniture upstairs, with Ciri’s crib and changing table gone upstairs into her designated room next to theirs. It would take a while, getting used to the idea of Ciri sleeping somewhere else, without her being an arm’s reach away. It’s going to be a learning curve for all of them, her included. But it’s her home now too, and they want to watch her grow into it however she likes.

A shrill ring from the doorbell chills his blood. He nudges Geralt away from him, the other man wearing an almost petulant smile as his arms fall away. He’s dressed, and he thanks every god he can remember the name of for it. Jaskier sticks his head out into the hallway, frowning at the front door. Geralt’s brothers usually text before they come over, and Geralt promised to drive to Yenn’s apartment to collect Ciri later on. He can’t imagine who would be shadowing their door at this hour – whatever time it is.

Jaskier pads to the door, frowning as he manages to make out the familiar blurred silhouette of his mother standing outside. Her crimson red coat and neatly kept hair shine through the worst of the frosted glass.

Jaskier can feel his stomach sink. Memories of harsh words brush against the shell of his ear and it all floods back to him. Every single thing he growled at his parents over a restaurant dinner.

Why in the names of all of the gods would she even be here?—

The second he clicks the door open, Maura whips around. Her car and driver wait patiently by the curb, darkened winter clouds tumbling down from the nearby hills; heavy with rain waiting to spill. She doesn’t look like she’ll spend long at his door – because gods curse him if he’s going to let her take on step inside. Jaskier’s fingers stay white-knuckled as they curl around the edge of the door, stepping in between it and the doorframe. A barrier between Maura and the house that is now _his_.

Maura offers him a small smile, only that slightly softens her features. “Julian,” she says. “How are you?”

His brows knit together. He doesn’t have to speak. Whatever he was going to say stays perched on the tip of his tongue as Maura fumbles with her bag, fishing something out of it. “I can’t stay long, darling, I’m sorry. But I’m here to give you this. It’s your share of the inheritance. We worked something out with the lawyers. Well, _I_ did anyway. Alfred will find out soon enough, so I thought I would give it to you before he blew up.” Her words trail off in a light, breathless laugh, something that fizzles out and dies in between them. He knows exactly how badly Alfred Pankratz will blow up when he comes across a chunk of funds missing from their family’s account. All he can do is hope that the man and his army of lawyers don’t find their way to his doorstep.

Jaskier looks at her outstretched hand. Caught between gloved fingers is a brown envelope. It’s not particularly big, no bigger than one used to send a letter, but he can imagine his mother asked the bank tellers for a cheque rather than cash or a statement.

He can feel Maura’s gaze burning into him, and he can’t quite bring himself to meet her eye.

“This isn’t from your father,” she says stiffly, forcing the words out and schooling her expression into something collected. Even through the kohl around her eyes and her darkened lashes, he can see how red her eyes are starting to turn. Maura’s painted lips press together. “This...this is from me. And your sister. She misses you, you know. I hope that you could visit her whenever you can; whatever feelings you might still have for your father and I...please don’t take anything out on Isabel.”

He hardly even knows the girl. He was born while he was away, and in the odd summer he would fly back to his family’s home, a curious girl barely reaching his hip would appear out of nowhere, eyeing him cautiously. Of course, he’ll visit Izzy. She’s a _child_ , barely a decade old.

Jaskier regards the envelope stretched out to him. Maura sighs. “Darling,” she murmurs, something dangerously close to how she used to speak to him when he was a child, before they started drifting apart. “You have made something truly wonderful of your life. You really have. And I know what you said. I don’t think there’s a day that goes by when I don’t think about it. I...I just want to make sure you’re safe and comfortable. This,” she juts the envelope out, insisting Jaskier takes it, “this is yours. You can try and give it back, but it’s yours. This is what is owed to you.”

Soured words sit on his tongue. Everything he said at that restaurant all those weeks ago, and every emotion he mustered to push those words out. He stares at the envelope, hoping that if his glare is strong enough, it might just burst into flames. He can’t look at his mother. He just can’t. Gods only know what might come out of him if he did. It’s a small wonder that he hasn’t shut the door on her already.

The skies darken overhead, a low rumble of thunder trembling through the streets. Maura sighs. “Darling, I,” she starts, pausing for a second to gather her words, “I’m truly sorry that we weren’t there for you. I wish that I could go back and take care of everything. I, I’m sorry, my darling.”

The floorboards creak behind him, and he knows Geralt is watching from the kitchen, keeping just out of sight of their visitor but ready to dash out if he’s needed. Jaskier straightens, squaring his shoulders. “Thank you for the offer,” he manages to keep steady, “but we’re doing just fine. If you want to give that to someone, give it to Izzy. Maybe she can use it to make something of her life when she’s old enough.”

If he means for the words to lash, he doesn’t know. But they tumble out of him before he can snap his jaw shut, and he watches Maura’s eyes redden and blink. He’s made his feelings and thoughts known at that dinner, and in the days following his made his peace with the fact that he might never see his parents again. He didn’t want to. He survived just fine on his own for years without them.

But something does tighten in his chest when he sees Maura’s arm drop, withering back down to her side. She might not have been the worst of them, but she wasn’t the greatest. Jaskier’s jaw flexes. “Give Izzy my best,” he says simply, stepping back into the house.

Before the door can shut, there’s a blur of movement that catches his eye. Maura steps away from the door, looking up to blink back whatever tears try to brim her eyes. “I’ll keep this around,” she says stiffly, motioning to the envelope. “It’s yours, and I spoke with our lawyers. I made sure Alfred wouldn’t be able to take it away from you. If you ever need it, just...just call.”

The door pauses. Jaskier’s grip on it tightens before grunts out something that sounds sort of like a _bye_ before letting the door click shut between them. As soon as it does, the sound of it ringing through the otherwise quiet hallway, he turns on his heel and strides back towards the kitchen.

Golden glinted eyes keep on him even as he passes Geralt, going straight for the oven and burners and setting back to making their breakfast. A shiver trembles down the length of his spine, and his chest is tightening again. Everything seems a bit too bright and loud, but he sniffs as he sets the burner back alight, dragging his pan over to keep cooking.

Shuffled footsteps carefully approach him from behind. Jaskier doesn’t even have to turn around to know that Geralt is frowning softly, wondering if it would be safe enough to reach out and gather the man back into his arms. He’d appreciate it. Geralt is a familiar weight that always anchors him back to earth when he feels like he’s going to slip away.

But he’s also known to flinch and bolt whenever Geralt has tried to soothe him in the past, so he understands why the other man is being cautious.

His tongue sits heavily in his mouth. The warming scent of bacon and sausage, of buttered toast and eggs is almost enough to make his stomach churn and his throat close.

Warmth blooms behind him. One of Geralt’s hands settles on to his hip, gently holding as he draws close. “Jask,” he rumbles.

Taking as steady a breath as he’s able to, Jaskier lets whatever words he can out before he catches them behind his teeth. “If you see her around again, don’t answer the door.”

There’s a notable pause that sits between them for a moment. He should turn around, look over his shoulder to the other man and gauge a reaction. His own feelings about his mother and everything else are scalding and swarming his mind. Geralt has always been around to dispel the worst of the red haze; to make him sit down and _think_ about what goes through his mind. But he keeps his eyes down at the bacon sizzling in the pan, crisping up as Geralt likes it. The thought of eating while his stomach is churning doesn’t sit well with him at all, but knowing the other man, he’s sure that Geralt will lure him to eat something; even if it’s just a slice of bacon and a piece of toast.

There’s a brushed kiss to his nape. Familiar warmth blooms through his skin and muscles and shivers down through him. It’s not like the other kisses they’ve shared throughout the last few days and nights. This lingers on his skin even as Geralt pulls away, hooking his chin on to Jaskier’s shoulder and letting his arms coil around his waist.

Geralt stays there. It makes the job of portioning out their breakfasts more difficult than it needs to be, but with the familiar and firm weight and warmth of the man behind him, it tempers the worst of the chill trying to settle into his veins and tighten his chest. Even when Jaskier lightly elbows him, nodding towards the dining table nearby, Geralt is loath to drift too far away from him. If anything, his arms tighten and it lures a small huffed laugh out of the other man. “I’m fine,” Jaskier murmurs, trying his best to wiggle free of Geralt’s hold while balancing plates in either hand. “Now come on; we need to get our energy back and I won’t have you starving on me.”

* * *

He knows better than to ask. The old man is as stubborn as any mule, and he knows that if he does mention that Vesemir should have brought more than one book with him, or even the small media player Lambert got him all those years ago that, somehow, he’s managed to keep intact. 

Geralt bites down on his tongue at another long, drawn-out sigh practically deflating the man by his side. It’s barely muffled by the chatter around them; other patients with their friends or family, or even the rhythmic beeping and shuttering of machinery around them. The room is dazzlingly bright, with tall lancet windows looking out into a well-maintained courtyard with marble and stone benches amid beds of pruned flowers. Nothing else has managed to grab his father’s attention but those flowers, and Geralt often catches him looking out at the courtyard, quietly taking in how each flower bloomed through the grey darkening days that are starting to roll in with the change of season.

He tries to get the closest seat to the courtyard. If it can keep Vesemir occupied for every thirty minutes of his chemo session, that’s enough for Geralt. There are only so many times he can try and strike up a conversation with the older man before it inevitably withers between them.

Scrolling through his phone, a small smirk quirks the corners of his lips when a message from Jaskier pops up at the top of the screen. He thinks better of opening it. Opening Jaskier’s messages in public can be like playing Russian Roulette. But even just seeing the man’s name – or _nickname_ , he quickly notes, knowing that Jaskier somehow must have changed it on his phone – lessens the tightness in his chest.

There’s a rumbling laugh beside him. “You seem terribly happy,” Vesemir notes, adjusting his seat slightly. Their designated nurse gave him a pillow and blanket, and a small packet of cards. Apparently, certain nurses at this clinic have an excellent hand for Crazy Eights and Kings.

Geralt looks up, noting a visibly _less irritated_ expression on his father’s face. He hates these sessions. He hates everything about them. Geralt can’t imagine anyone liking them, to be fair. But for a stubborn old goat like his father, who shrivels away at the idea of having to be taken care of, it’s hell on earth. Geralt palms his phone into his pocket. “What’s so terrible about it?”

Vesemir huffs. “I’m wondering if you’re going to crash again,” he murmurs. The treatments make his body slacken and sink back into the chair, and the comfortable pillow and blanket do nothing to help him stay awake. Eskel mentioned that he nodded off for thirty minutes a few weeks ago. Geralt was hoping the same would happen now. But no – of course he had to get the Vesemir intent on prodding into his life.

Before he can have a chance to respond, barely cracking open his lips, Vesemir waves his hand. It’s heavy and barely makes it two inches off of the chair’s armrest, but it stops whatever Geralt was going to say from spilling out of him. “It’s an odd thing, you know; watching someone you care about drive themselves head-first into a brick wall. I saw it when your heart got broken. I saw a terrible darkness plague you for months afterwards. I’m just wondering if it’s gone now; you were happy once, and then you weren’t. I hated seeing you like that. I hadn’t seen you that stooped since you were a lad.”

Geralt watches, because it’s all he can really do. Anything he was going to say, an objection or an affirmation, lodges and sticks in his throat unwilling to budge. The rest of the room and those within it slip away, carrying on with their own business of finishing their treatments and heading away to their own lives. Geralt’s vision sits on Vesemir.

The old man takes a deep, steady breath. “He asked me, you know. Jaskier. When you and, uh, Ciri, the princess, when you came over for lunch. He asked me if he could marry you. And, gods, I thought to myself – well, isn’t this a bit soon. I even thought about saying no. You had only been together for a short while. I wanted you both to take your time. Gods, you’re both so young.”

Another measured breath. He’s not quite looking at Geralt, rather the short sliver of space between them where Geralt sits by his side, hunched over in a chair that is much more uncomfortable than that of his father’s. Vesemir’s golden eyes crinkle as he smiles; something soft and warm, and one that Geralt hasn’t seen in a while. “But he argued his case. You have a persistent fiancé; I’ll give you that, lad. He might as well have brought a slideshow presentation with him. I could tell from the way he spoke about you that he loved you, adored the ground you walked on, and would do his very best to keep you safe. That’s all I want for you, my boy. And seeing you smile like that, it’s...well, I thought that if the gods struck me down right now, then I would leave knowing that you were happy and at peace with life again.”

A moment stretches out between them. One without any words, but other sounds nearby float in and try and disturb what they can of the quiet. Geralt swallows, and even that sounds deafening in his own ears. Vesemir breathes for a moment, hooded eyes looking towards the courtyard and watching a new lashing of rain patter on to the cobblestones. Even through the terribly grey and heavy weather, the flowers seem to burst through with their colours.

Geralt blinks, letting whatever lump pokes in his throat sit with him for a moment. “Chemo has made you soft, old man,” he murmurs, reaching for Vesemir’s blanket and tugging it up, draping it over one of his shoulders. The room isn’t too cold, but he knows that his father has being too sensitive to any stray breeze or chill over the last couple of weeks.

As soon as the blanket is settled over him, Vesemir slowly slips off to sleep. Geralt’s eyes wander to the man’s chest, watching it fall and rise with comfortably deep breaths. Geralt blinks back what he can; tears starting to prickle his eyes. His throat trembles as he takes a steady breath, which ends up more shuddering and loud than he would like. He takes a quick glance at the clock, rhythmically ticking within the room, droning out every second and minute and hour that passes. He’s not the only one looking at the clock, with others around him peering up at it every five minutes in hopes that it might move that bit quicker if they stare at it.

There’s only an hour left of Vesemir’s session. The nurse on her usual patrol of the room spots him asleep and offers Geralt a small smile. He tries to return it as best as he can, feeling his face slowly heat with the effort he’s taking to stop anything from coming out of him.

His father could be a stubborn, crotchety, cantankerous bastard, especially in his older years, with no hesitation to speak his mind or bare his teeth when needs be. But underneath it all, looking through the fault line cracks, Geralt sees the man who led him through his childhood, through his _life_. The man who appeared at his foster home when he was barely able to speak, keeping to himself and his would-be-brother for fear of being taken away again. And in a house of just Geralt, his brothers, and the man that would become his father, he slowly cracked open his lips and learned to push words from his throat; to not grasp on to his father’s leg or hide behind his brother whenever things got scary.

Gods, he’s scared now. His eyes stay on Vesemir for as long as they’re able to, watching his chest rise and fall, and how he snuffles in his sleep. As long as it’s sleep that has claimed him, Geralt can breathe that bit easier.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, tapping Jaskier’s earlier message open. It’s a video; a short video of him cradling Ciri to his chest and shoulder, trying to lure more words out of her. “Come on, princess,” he tries, angling his phone’s camera to catch Ciri’s smiling face, even when she tries to bury it into his neck. “ _Dada_. I know you can say it. I have documented proof. Or will you just say things for your Mum, is that it? I see how it is. You’ll do whatever she wants but when I, your fun stepdad who lets you do anything you like, wants a simple word, you get silent?”

The video eventually cuts out, and with a lack of any more, Geralt can only imagine Jaskier has given up on the idea. He taps out a quick reply.

**Geralt [14:32 ] – She really doesn’t give a shit about you or your feelings, does she**?

_Jaskier [14:33 ] – I don’t think you realise how badly I need this. Lambert is trying to teach her Lam and I’d rather DIE than listen to that._

_Jaskier [14:33 ] – How’s the session going? Are you two bored yet? _

**Geralt [14:34 ] – I brought a book. Dad is sleeping. **

_Jaskier [14:34 ] – Good. You know, if he wants something to do, I still have a backyard that needs flowers and shit. He could come over some day and we could make a project out of it. _

It would have to be in between sessions. Vesemir is always exhausted in the days after them, and he starts to get irritable in the days leading up to them. But rooting up a new garden and teaching Jaskier everything he can about flowers and their care would keep his mind off of things.

**Geralt [14:35 ] – Some Father-in-Law and Son-in-Law bonding? How sweet. **

_Jaskier [14:35 ] – Have you met your dad? I want to keep that man on my good side. Gods only know what ravine I would end up in if I didn’t..._

**Geralt [14:36 ] – Lower Kaedwen is rocky and practically desolate, and no one ever checks for bodies, so my best guess is there.**

_Jaskier [14:36 ] – I’m not even going to ask..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks; there will be no killing of characters in this fic (I'm looking at you, Grandpapa Vessie). This fic will have a happy ending, so help me God. I end enough original fiction with terribly sad endings, so I won't do that here. This is where we all go to get away from the Sads and Depressies.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense and terrible humour) || agoodgoddamnshot (writings)
> 
> twitters  
> @eyesupmarksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments always gladly appreciated x


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